


The Jared Padalecki Untitled Project

by crookedassembly



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: 2006-2007, Angst, Jared is Jared, Love/Hate, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Power Dynamics, Wealth Imbalance, brit pick on posting, fame imbalance, jensen is bitter, post-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedassembly/pseuds/crookedassembly
Summary: After Supernatural, Jensen and Jared aren't talking. But a film's a film and Jensen couldreallyuse the money.Or the one where Jensen hates Jared a lot but his contract says he needs to be nice.(previously posted under sometimesophie on LJ)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written 2006 - 2007
> 
> So I am in the process of transferring some of my old fanfic over from LJ for the purposes of posterity. This was hands down my most popular fic from my LJ days so I felt obliged to include, but I was pretty young when I wrote it and definitely still learning.
> 
> I'm not editing to the extent my brain wants me to, but I am going to do as good a Brit-pick as I can as only the last couple of chapters had a proper once-over on that front (thanks to way2busymom!). This is also why I'm not posting all chapters at once, but it should all be up on here in the next week or so.

When Jensen gets the call from his agent, he’s indulging himself in his misery. A caramel mocha frappuccino by his side, staring out the window at some skinny kid on the pavement playing guitar for loose change, a napkin slowly shredding under his fingers. Jensen can’t play the guitar - not really, because this is LA and even the homeless have studied musical theatre. Perhaps his singing could entice the good people of LA to empty their pockets.

_Hey, Jen. Good news. The Padalecki kid, yeah? His people just called me; seems he thinks there’s a part just perfect for you in his new film. Nothing on paper yet, ‘course, but the figure they mentioned sent fucking shivers up my spine, yeah? I said you were definitely interested, ‘kay. Said you might just be able to fit it into your_ busy _schedule._

Jensen’s agent has the sort of braying laugh that gets dogs barking; loud and long and grating as hell. Jensen holds the phone away from his ear and lets it run its course. When his cell stops vibrating in his hand, he gingerly replaces it.

_…put my ear to the ground and get back to you, kid. Stay smart now._

The line goes dead. Jensen carefully puts the phone back on the table and stares at it, leaning back in his seat. He idly thinks that he needs to change his agent because the guy is really beginning to annoy him. Stirring his melting frappuccino with the straw, he takes a cold swallow and goes back to staring at the kid with the guitar. Starts ripping up a new napkin, ignoring the pointed look of a female server.

On the way home, he passes three billboards pasted with Jared Padalecki’s smiling face: two for some movie about robots and one a Calvin Klein advert. He doesn’t look at them.

~

The script arrives in the mail; black on crisp white, with large chunks yet to be finalised and brackets explaining a whole kitchen scene which still isn’t written. Jensen signs for it without a word, his battered robe trailing down past his knees and his hair mussed with sleep. He lets the package fall to the kitchen table with a satisfyingly loud  _clunk_ and pours himself coffee. When he opens the door to Chris Kane a good couple of hours or so later, he still isn’t dressed and the script is still wrapped up in cheap brown paper on the table.

“You’re pathetic, man,” Chris offers in way of greeting, as he pulls open the fridge freezer door and helps himself to juice. “Just open the damn thing already.”

So Jensen does, and the character list on the front has a single name highlighted in green, second from the very top.  _Dave Benson_ , it says, and Jensen has to stop himself from trying the name out, from seeing how the syllables feel on his tongue and how the two words hang in the air. He’s never seen himself as a _Dave_ , before. Dave, to him, is a guy from high school, big and large with a dull sheen to his eyes. Dave, he remembers, was a bit of a dick.

The name above that is  _Tom Westbury_.

He tails Chris into the lounge, and they sit next to each other on the couch - real close, with the heat of Chris’ skin pressed against his thigh through his jeans, shoulders bumping - sharing the script between them. They’ve done this before, too many times to count, and there’s something undeniably high school girl about the tradition that neither Jensen or Chris have ever mentioned. They’ve both got their reasons, Jensen supposes.

Chris takes  _Tom_  and Jensen takes  _Dave_ , and they take it in turns to read the stage directions. The minor characters get shared between them, with an eye to having Jensen play only Dave when possible, even if Chris ends up with three or more parts and the action becomes slightly incoherent, with his smooth, low, Texas-spun voice running on without pause through pages of text. They break halfway through for chips and beer, their voices scratchy from use, and Jensen munches on dry cereal as Chris opens a packet of chocolate covered cookies. They don’t give any opinions on what they’ve read yet - they’ll save that till later - and, when they return to the lounge, Jensen gets crumbs over the pages as he starts on a Dave monologue.

Jensen doesn’t want to be, but he’s actually fairly impressed. His not-so-future life would be a hell of a lot easier, he knows, if he got to turn down the hefty pay check for artistic reasons, irreconcilable differences and all that. But he  _likes_ what he’s reading is the frustrating thing, and Jensen hasn’t really  _liked_ any project he’s worked on for the last six months or so. This is good - gritty, with dry humour and a twist, a  _real_ twist, that catches him unawares. He thinks this could be the next Fight Club if it’s done right, and that’s one hell of a pull, even without the money. He hates that.

At the end, Chris and he laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh. Laugh with that hint of hysteria that says  _so I killed a guy, right - or at least I_ think _I did_ and when Chris eventually trails off, Jensen continues. And they’re sitting in his shitty lounge and Jensen has a packet of Cheerios between his thighs and he’s only following stage directions, but he can see the glistening tarmac beneath Dave’s feet, is aware of Tom crouched behind him, and he’s there, man. He’s there and the only thing he can do is laugh.

Abruptly, he stops. Flips the script shut.

“So,” Chris says, after a beat. “You’re a fucking pussy if you turn it down, y’know.”

Jensen doesn’t say anything, shakes his head.

Chris just shrugs, his eyes sharp behind lazy, half-lowered lids. “The boy owes it to you,” he says. Like that’s all that matters, and Jensen loves Chris, he really does, but sometimes the guy just really misses the fucking point.

~

It’s been a while since Jensen’s experienced the film industry, but he remembers all the  _talk_ with a certain fond frustration. Hell, he was in negotiations for  _Devour_ for a fortnight, being bounced back between producers with their concerns and Dave, the director, with his vision, and  _Devour_  was never going to be anything else but a shitty film. This film - the _Jared Padalecki Untitled Project_  as it's so snappily being referred to - has aspirations of an Oscar-winning blockbuster, and filming is due to start in less than a month to give the required six months of production time to catch the end of December and Oscar-season. Jensen’s beginning to remember the word ‘busy’ with a fond appreciation. After giving his agent the go-ahead on the script, he’s been up at six every morning for the last week, being ferried from appointment to appointment, being asked whether he has any special dietary requirements and such like.

Currently, it’s half three on a Friday, and he’s in a board room, sitting across the mahogany expanse of table from Mark Finnburg, the executive producer. He’s a big man with a broad, unsmiling face, hair going prematurely grey about the temples, and Jensen weathers his gaze uncomfortably, feeling very much like a very little fish in a very big, very exclusive pond. His contract lies on the table between Mark’s broad forearms, and all Jensen wants to do is sign it and escape to a cool drink in celebration of a weekend’s breather and hammering the nails firmly into his coffin.

“So,” Mark says, and spreads his fingers over the contract, pushing it towards him. “Take your time.”

Jensen leans forwards and accepts the sheets of paper, settling back to read. The traffic rush from outside is muted despite the street-facing windows spanning a whole wall, and the summer sun is pleasantly warm through the tinted glass. He reads in silence, always aware of the other man’s strong presence opposite him, the rustle of paper and the slight hiss of the air conditioning strangely loud in the still room. By all accounts, the contract seems pretty standard, detailing money paid and marketing obligations and working hours, and he’s really just skimming the words because it’s all been outlined to him already. He’s on the third page, however, when he jerks out of auto-pilot and really  _reads_  the words of the clause in front of him. Then he reads them again, frowning.

He looks up and Mark’s watching him.

“It’s a precaution,” he says, before Jensen can ask.

Jensen laughs harshly in disbelief. “It’s bullshit. ‘Antagonistic behaviour’? What exactly is that nowadays, anyway, huh? Speaking to the guy? Not wanting to go for a beer with him? What?”

“So walk away,” Mark says coolly, and Jensen wants to swear at him so fucking badly it hurts. “Jared was the one that suggested you for this project, and we liked the material we saw of you otherwise you wouldn’t be here, but I don’t mind telling you that I argued against getting you on board. The two leads hating each other can really screw with the movie-making process, you understand.”

“We don’t hate each other,” Jensen says, stiffly.

“The press seems to think differently.”

Jensen has about three million different venomous retorts to that. He struggles with himself for a long moment, swallowing down his anger.

“Does Jared have to agree to this --  _this_?” he asks finally, gesturing to the contract.

“What do you think?” Mark says, bluntly.

No, Jensen thinks, of course not. They wouldn’t risk losing Jared the fucking movie star. But, hey, that Ackles fellow? That guy who used to be in that series once a few years back - does commercials every now and again cause he’s still okay looking? Yeah, sure, slap him with a ‘fuck you and please shut the door behind you’ clause. Assholes.

Jensen chews agitatedly on the inside of his cheek, thinking about the script and the part and the money. Even half of what they’ll be giving him is a hell of a lot more than he usually makes for three or four months of on-and-off work, and he’ll be given that half even if he ends up "antagonising" Jared by breaking his damn nose.

“What if it’s his fault?” he grits out. “Jared’s fault?”

Mark nods to the contract. “It’s in there. All of it.” He leans casually back in his chair. “This isn’t about you two not talking, or anything petty like that. Your pay will only be cut if either of you is unable to work naturally with the other on camera. If it gets in the way of the film,” he says, sincerely, with a small, viciously-contained smile, “you’re going to fucking regret it, believe me.”

Jensen believes him. He reads the clause again, weighing it mentally.

“I need to talk to my agent,” he says finally, thinking  _lawyer_.

Mark nods at him, and his secretary shows him out.

~

His lawyer pronounces the contract fit, assures Jensen he won’t be conned out of half his money if he calls Jared something colourful, says sign.

His agent, hearing through his lawyer, says sign,  _you jackass_.

Jensen signs. Then buys a twelve pack of Bud from the service station down the end of his road and drinks himself stupid.

~

The second to last time Jensen had seen Jared, Jensen had cut the flesh over his knuckles open on Jared’s teeth when he’d punched him across the mouth. Then he blacked both his eyes, his own blood smudging down across Jared’s cheek from where it vividly welled from his fist.

The first hit and Jared had still been trying to make everything alright between them, spitting and swearing and saying, _Wait, goddamn you, wait_. After Jensen had hit him again, Jared had stumbled backwards a couple of steps, shaking his head as if to clear it, and when he looked back up his eyes were hard and his mouth silent. When Jensen swung at him again, Jared had stepped into it and hit back, _hard_.

Jared and his un-fucking-fair height advantage had left Jensen lying on the ground, panting raggedly for breath, his eyebrow split, his right cheek throbbing with his heartbeat and his solar plexus aching with a vengeance that said it would never entirely forgive him. Jared had pushed his sweaty hair out of his face and leant over him, hands braced on his knees, his white t-shirt blotchy red with the imprint of bloody knuckles, and said, "Grow up, Jensen. I said I was sorry.”

The guy had had the balls to look hurt about it, too, Jensen remembers, on the drive over from the poorer end of the city to LA’s very centre. He thinks about every punch thrown, about every dull, three-day-ache inflicted, about Jared’s stupid bleeding face, hovering over his, his expression crumpled slightly. He doesn’t think it’s particularly healthy but he needs the slow, righteous burn of anger right now. Needs to remember exactly why he stopped talking to Jared in the first place.

When Jensen walks into the room set up by the studio for the first meeting, he pauses before nodding across at Jared who’s already awkwardly risen to his feet, smiling that shy, half-grin he gives strangers. Jensen doesn’t smile back, just sits in the chair indicated to him and nods at the offer of a drink, not looking at Jared as he hesitates for an uncertain moment and then sits back down.

“Hi, Jensen,” Jared says. “How’ve you been?”

“Surviving,” Jensen says shortly. He’ll be damned if he’s going to help here. The whole thing is fucking ridiculous, and he’s sure Jared knows that just as well as he does. Jensen’s still wearing his shades, a more carefully considered move than he’d ever admit to and something he only does inside when hungover or meeting fans, and Jared can make what he likes out of that. He slouches casually back in his chair, suppressing the urge to kick his feet up, and wanting far far away.

Jared rolls his bottle of water between his hands, still looking earnestly at him from across the table. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while. You know. Clear the air between us.”

Jensen thanks the blonde girl as she passes him a misty-cold bottle, breaking the seal and swallowing three large gulps - long enough to pass right on over that remark, thank you very much. He looks at Jared, meets his eyes, then shrugs noncommittally and spreads his lips into something which isn’t quite a smile.

“So,” Jared says stiffly, after a beat, placing his bottle carefully back on the table. “What do you think of the script?”

~

The very last time Jensen had seen Jared, it had pretty much been a non-event. It had been at a party, one of those loud ones with too much beer and too much making out, and Jared hadn’t been hard to spot through the throngs of pretty, drunk things because he was about a head taller than most of them. Jensen, after beating a pretty undignified retreat, had waited outside on the porch for fifteen minutes before his cab had shown up, drumming his fingers against his leg with impatience, and he was half way home when his cell had beeped at him that he had a message.

_Where r u? J wants to talk._

Jensen had turned his phone off, mentally berating himself because he had  _known_  that Mike was Jared’s friend too, and of course he was going to be there, of  _course_.

When he had finally deemed it safe to turn his cell back on the following afternoon, there was a single text waiting for him in his inbox. Mikey again.   
_  
Asshole._


	2. Chapter 2

Jensen’s in a foul mood when he pushes into the small, cramped room that Jared and he have been told to use for practice - for working through their lines, for getting to the point that they can work together again, whatever. Glares at the one couch, the crappy coffee machine on the tiny side table, the two freebie cups, and wonders when the hell the movie business got so _glamorous_.

He’s early and Jared’s not there yet. Jensen doesn’t know whether to be grateful about that, or annoyed. He rubs a hand over his sore neck and across his jaw, grimacing at the scrape of bristles - testament to looking just as bad as he feels - and flops down on the couch. He’s tired and maybe slightly hungover, the need for his bed an almost physical thing, and he’d have had a good hour or two of extra sleep that morning if that bitch from some tabloid hadn’t rung - where she’d got his home number, he has no fucking clue - smoothly asking question after question about Jared, the movie, their relationship, around his incoherent string of cuss words.

Jensen hasn’t been used to this much attention for a long time. Hell, he’s not sure he’s  _ever_  been used to it, because seven AM phone calls and paparazzi following him down the street are in a whole different league from anything filming Supernatural had thrown at him. The nearest he’s come to this was after some pap had managed to take pictures of both Jared’s and his bruised faces on the day after their fight. They’d been put together on the front of some glossy magazine with the words  _Golden Pair Break up?_ underneath them, and Jensen had had to unplug his phone in the end to escape all the offers for him to tell  _his_  side of the story. But even that buzz, after a week, had faded. He’d had several calls in the run-up to Jared’s first film, all asking him for comments on Jared’s success, and one reporter had regularly called him right on up to Jared’s fourth movie. He’d put the phone down on them all. Fucking vultures.

But since news had leaked that Jensen Ackles was starring opposite Jared Padalecki in a new film - all of, what, four days ago? - Jensen's taken to wearing his shades and baseball cap everywhere he goes. He can’t go into his nearest 7-Eleven without having the kid behind the counter gawp at him as he buys his milk, the magazine racks behind him covered with shining, smiling, publicity shots of Jared, whilst he himself looks hot and harassed in the impromptu photos pasted next to him. Jensen had wanted to remind the kid that he worked in  _LA_ , for Christ’s sake, and anyone with a mind to bumping into celebrities only had to stand still along one of the nicer streets in the main drag for long enough, but he didn’t. Just smiled as if he was in pain, bought his milk and fled. Jensen’s always found that side of fame really fucking awkward.

He considers making use of the facilities and making himself a cup of coffee to wake himself up, but it seems too much like hard work to get up off the soft couch in order to do so. Instead, he kicks his shoes off, puts his feet up and settles his head back on the arm rest. Not to sleep, because that would be mildly unprofessional and the next person to arrive in the room was almost certainly going to be Jared, and Jensen has every intention of being completely on his guard whenever Jared is about. Call it a point of principle.

The ceiling is an off shade of white.

He blinks open his eyes, confused, disorientated, and it takes a moment to fully register that the large, warm hand on his shoulder and the softly concerned face hovering not too far above his belong to Jared. Takes another moment to remember that he doesn’t like Jared, that he hasn’t liked Jared for a long time, that he isn’t in some trailer belonging out in Vancouver.

“You okay, man?” Jared asks, with a lopsided smile. “You look kinda dead.”

Jensen stiffens, frowns, and sits up against the gentle pressure of the other man’s hand on his shoulder, shrugging the touch away. Jared backs up a step, his expression tightening, says, “Yeah, okay. Okay,” to himself and stands awkwardly, looking at Jensen for a couple of beats, his hands loose and unsure at his sides. He finally nods, straightening as if mentally collecting himself, and asks, “Coffee?” in a neutral, pleasant voice.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, covertly glancing at his watch face when Jared turns. He scowls as he realises he’s been asleep for at least half an hour, rolling his shoulders to ward off any stiffness, hating life and Jared and tabloid reporters and existence.

Jared comes back around the couch, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands, and passes one over before slumping down next to him, their legs almost touching. The couch dips with his weight and Jensen shifts as far towards his end as possible, excusing the childish gesture in his head because Jared really  _does_  need as much room as he can get. For a brief moment, Jensen’s hit with the surrealism of the situation - that Jared Padalecki, star of  _The Door_ and  _I’m Asking_ , has just made him coffee - before silently berating himself for being no better than a star-struck tween. He takes a sip of the coffee, black and sweet and strong - just how he likes it - and he remembers how Jared and he used to fight over the coffee maker because Jared is a pussy and likes his caffeine as weak as it comes, whilst Jensen is more a sludge man. After a moment of internal conflict, he glances over at the other man’s cup and sees it's just as black as his own. Something clenches deep within his chest and damn Jared, just damn him.

“So,” he says, after a moment’s silence. “Do you want to start from the very beginning?”

Scripts on laps, they turn slightly on the couch, both leaning up against their respective armrest because there’s no point in just  _reading_  the thing. They’ve both read it enough times by now, Jensen knows. The idea is to read it  _together_ , to share the experience, and for that they need to face each other. It’s not exactly comfortable for Jensen - with the armrest digging into his back and the occasional flickering glance that Jared casts him - but nothing about this project was ever meant to be.

The first scene is all pretty much Jared, and he starts with a monologue which isn’t quite a narrative, his voice weaving competently through the lines, with enough intonation to grab attention and yet not be unnatural. Jensen watches him, liberated by Jared’s eyes being firmly fixed on the script. Jared’s wearing dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt - nice, casual, although both the jeans and the top fit him subtly better than anything he wore back when he and Jensen hung out. The lines of the clothes are somehow sharper too, of a better quality, expensive, probably designer. Jensen wonders whether Jared bought them himself or whether he has some sort of stylist. The thought is meant to be bitter but, in all honesty, the very idea of Jared having someone to pick out his clothes is absolutely fucking funny. Jensen tries not to smirk and fails.

Jared abruptly stops speaking. “This line,” he says. “What do you think?” He repeats it and looks up at Jensen. “It sounds wrong. Words or tone?”

Jensen stares at him for a moment with a dull lack of comprehension. This isn’t the Jared he remembers: the guy who’d take any and all shit lines that were thrown at him and work with them until they sounded part-way okay, ignoring Jensen’s advice to  _just change the damn things already; no one will care_.

“I dunno,” he says, carefully. “Say it again.”

Jared obliges and Jensen, listening for it this time, hears what he means and doesn’t think it sits quite right either. “Maybe angrier?” he suggests, and Jared tries it out. Jensen shakes his head. “No,” he says, finally. “You’re right. Crap line.”

He watches as Jared scribbles something onto his script with a chewed pencil. Can’t stop himself thinking:  _Jared the movie star_. Altogether, it isn’t a particularly comfortable thought.

When they get onto the second scene and his turn finally comes, he’s feeling strangely self-conscious. Nervous, even, and that just makes him angry. It’s been a long while since he’s had to do any serious acting, and Jared’s done  _movies_  in that time - won awards for said movies, too, for Christ’s sake. He starts off a little shakily, trying to remember the feel of the character, trying to remember the Dave he had found while sitting next to Chris eating Cheerios. Bit by bit it comes back to him, and he remembers that Dave was a bit of an asshole, one of those guys people start liking just as soon as they’re about half-way through hating him: smug, vain, pretentious son of a bitch that he is. But loyal, really fucking loyal, and he thinks the audience might start loving him around about the time that Tom Westbury ties him up and leaves him for the wolves without explaining why, because, yes, it may be the only way out of the mess they’ve gotten into, but Dave would never do that to Tom. Never.

He reads a line and Jared reads a line, and even in the early stages he can tell that this is good, this is really fucking good. The thing about this - about it being  _Jared_  as Tom Westbury, rather than Chris - is that Jensen can believe in Jared’s Tom. From his childish belief in heroes to his constant need to be doing something; from his quick anger to his slightly skewed perceptions on the Right Thing. Jensen’s missed Jared becoming a really good actor - refused to watch the movies showcasing his progressing skills as they came out, one after another - and it really shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. He doesn’t know whether it’s a comfort that Jared’s become famous for all the right reasons or all the more reason to be angry at him.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, with a smirk. “You killed a guy?”

“No, I  _didn’t_ kill a guy,” Jared fires back in Tom’s voice, annoyed.

“You were ten. How the hell do you know that you didn’t kill him?”

“I’d remember.”

“You were  _ten_. The only thing I can remember from back then was that Captain Planet had a stick up his ass and I liked the orange turtle the best. But hey, if you say you didn’t hack a guy to pieces with a knife the cops found in your room then sure, I believe you.”

Jensen can feel Jared’s eyes on him.

“You’re an asshole,” he says, quietly and maybe - Jensen wonders - with a little too much feeling.

“That’s what my mom always told me.”

Through another page and a half of script and Jensen still feels the itch of Jared’s eyes on him more often than not. He looks up, catches Jared in the process of looking back down at his words, looks back down himself and tries to get back into the action.  Before long, though, the feeling of being watched crawls back over his skin, and the process begins again: he looks up, Jared looks down. He shifts, feeling vaguely self-conscious and annoyed - what, was Jared trying to unnerve him or something? - before finally looking up and snapping, “Look, stop it, alright.”

Jared stares at him as if he’s gone crazy.

“Stop  _watching_ me,” Jensen clarifies. “It’s fucking with my chi. If you’ve got something to say just come out and damn well say it.”

Jared starts guiltily, looking very much caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. He looks down, thumb tracing over the binding of his script for a moment, then shrugs and glances back up at Jensen, a wry smile on his face. “Sorry,” he says. “I was just thinking you were good, you know? Good for the part.”

Jensen is pretty fucking tempted to strangle him.

After a brief moment of struggling with himself, he manages a grimace which is meant to be an apologetic grin and succeeds in saying lightly, “You’re better,” without sounding as if he’d rather scratch his eyes out with a toothpick than admit it.

Jared looks genuinely surprised. Jensen hurriedly calls lunch break before anything else can be said to make the moment even more disgustingly soap opera. He stumbles out of the room, out of the building, gets into his car and _drives_.

~

That evening Jensen sits at home, familiarising himself with his lines and bored out of his skull. Bored enough to want to go collect the Pepperoni Feast he’s ordered from his local pizza place, only a couple of blocks away, rather than asking for it to be delivered. He can’t seem to stop himself thinking of Jared, and he chews on his fist, trying to make the pages in front of him merely text, to no avail. He can’t read a single one of Tom’s lines without wondering how Jared would say the words, how Jared would look as he acted it out, how Jared would react to Dave’s more spiteful comments. It’s driving him crazy and he needs - hell,  _deserves_  - a break.

The sun’s long gone behind the horizon and he reckons the sunglasses and cap make him look more suspicious than anything, loitering about on the streets after nine o’clock, but he shoves both on anyway and picks up his keys and wallet, forever wary of photographers. Down the street, turn left, and he passes Blockbusters. He hesitates outside the window, staring into the brightly lit shop, then shakes his head, silently tells himself  _no_ , and continues walking.

On the way back, warm box smelling of oregano and fresh dough in his hands, he hesitates again. This time, he doesn’t allow himself to think about it, and exits the shop a few minutes later with a DVD of  _The Door_  under his arm.

He doesn’t get through it all. As soon as Jared’s character’s brother is introduced - a complete and utter idiot - he switches it off, feeling angry and too full of pizza. It had been a bad idea, just as he had known it would be.

~

Jared - a disgustingly wide awake and well turned out Jared, in long shorts and a green tee - hands him a cup of coffee in the morning and tells him to drink it quickly because Andrew, the director, wants to see them, and he’s caught up in production stuff halfway across the city.

Jensen burns his tongue on the coffee and doesn’t feel much better for it. He glares at Jared, who doesn’t seem to notice, merely takes the cup back once he’s finished and sets it down on the table, guiding him out the door with a large hand hovering at the small of his back. Jensen grits his teeth and endures, Jared’s inability to stay out of his personal space grating sorely over already-raw nerves, but baulks in the parking lot as he’s herded towards Jared’s brand new, cherry red Porsche.

“I’d prefer to take my own car,” he says, side-stepping neatly out of Jared’s reach.

Jared raises an eyebrow. “You know the way?”

“I’ll follow you.”

“Through early morning traffic in downtown LA?” Jared laughs good-naturedly, and Jensen can feel the steady throbbing onset of a headache behind his left eyeball. “No way, man. I’m driving.”

“No,” Jensen says sharply, expression dangerously fixed, unwilling to give in. “You are not. I want to drive my own car.”

Jared shrugs easily. “Fine, whatever you want. Which is yours?”

For a moment, Jensen flounders. “You’re not coming with me,” he says.

“Course I am. Early morning traffic, remember?” Jared rolls his eyes, as if Jensen’s being completely thick-headed. “You drive, I’ll give directions. So. Which is yours?”

Jensen’s is the beaten up Ford Mustang, of course; old enough to be embarrassing and yet not so old as to be a thing of vintage beauty, the black paint dusty from summer and with a long, pale scrape down the side that Jensen had woken up to find one morning and hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about yet. It had meant to be short-term investment: one to tide him over between the writing off of his old car and the buying of his new, but he’s had it six months now and Chris is fond of it anyway. He doesn’t think that’s recommendation enough for Jared Padalecki though, who’d always joked that when he was really rich and famous he’d have a car for every day of the week. Jensen’s been told that the guy actually has eight now, so either Jared can’t count or he’s just verging on extravagant.

For a moment, he wants to retract. Wants to say, “Hey, I’ve always liked Porsches so why don’t  _you_  drive?” rather than admit to the Mustang, but Jared’s looking at him all expectant and Jensen will be damned before he cares a flying fuck for what Jared thinks. Pulling his keys from his jeans pocket, he walks on over and unlocks it. A flicker of uncertainty crosses Jared’s expression, a faint hesitation in his stance, before he’s walking over, pulling open the passenger door and sliding onto the seat.

“This is a bit like the Impala, isn’t it?” he says.

Jensen grips the steering wheel, turns the radio up loud and screeches out of the parking lot, ignoring him completely. There’s no air conditioning, of course, and Jared winds the window down and shoves his head out into the wind, looking like some sort of very large, content dog, his hair messy and in his eyes. He stays like that until they reach the more populated streets and people start pointing, shouting, waving, and he jerks his head backwards and sinks low in the seat. He gives a curt direction to turn left, and Jensen does, resting his elbow on his own window, wound down all the way, the rush of air in his face, smiling with a smug satisfaction.

~

Andrew the director is surly and talks to himself, with a receding hairline and a lack of facial expressions. He’s not exactly what Jensen had expected from what Jared had said on the way over - he’s pretty certain the words  _great guy_ ,  _funny as hell_ ,  _really knows what he’s doing_ had been mentioned - and the man had seemed distinctly unimpressed as he had given Jensen the once over with his eyes.

“You will show me what you have done,” he had said, and ushered them into a cool, dark room before striding purposefully off for what he promised was “the best damn ice tea in the state”. It was the most animated they had seen him.

Jensen’s head still aches. Jared’s sprawled easily in the chair next to him, limbs long and loose, and his wrist keeps on carelessly brushing against Jensen’s forearm. Jensen’s jaw is beginning to hurt too, his teeth gritted together hard, and the muscles in his shoulders are coiled unpleasantly tight. There’s a strip light flickering on off, on off in the corner of the room, and Jared’s humming something, soft and irregular and fucking annoying, every now and again turning his head, grin wide and happy, and saying, “He’s a great guy. You’ll see. You guys are gonna get on like a house of fire, I know it.”

Just as Jensen’s entertaining ideas of buying a shotgun, Andrew returns with a glass jug of ice tea clinking with ice, and it’s okay - cold, at least - even if Jensen privately thinks Lipton’s is better. The director pulls up a chair, right in front of them both, and regards them with slowly blinking, dull, brown eyes. He raises his glass of ice tea, takes a long swallow and smacks his lips loudly in contentment, then nods and says, “Show me the second scene.”

Jensen shrugs, flips open his script to the right page, then turns his chair as Jared does the same so they can look at each other.

“Did I ever give the impression I liked you?” Jensen asks, pleasantly,  _fuck you_ smile pasted to his face. He imagines Jared shoving impatiently past him into his -  _Dave_ ’s - home. “But no, by all means, please, come in.”

It’s a long scene and lasts just over ten minutes, by Jensen’s reckoning, even without the added time for camera panning and actions. Jared as Tom is in-his-face and demanding, and he realises with some surprise halfway through that he really doesn’t like him - feels  _Dave_ doesn’t really like him, either - and his tone becomes steadily more mocking, an added beat of cruel consideration before every line as Tom spills out his heart to him and expects him to  _do_ something about it. Jared responds in kind, Tom becoming angrier and louder whilst Dave just slouches back and smiles, and when they finish Jared’s leaning forward over his knees, chest rising and falling heavily with frustrated exertion, blinking the glare he had been fixing Jensen with out of his eyes.

Jensen smirks at him. Jared frowns.

“It didn’t go quite like that before,” he apologises, glancing towards Andrew.

“Yes,” Andrew says as if he hadn’t really heard him, looking between the pair of them, his lips curling into a smile. “ _Yes_. That’s pretty much exactly what I wanted. I didn’t think you’d get it. I thought - And this whole production has been damn crazy so far - a mess, if you ask me - what with them getting you two to rehearse before I’d even met you, Jensen,” he says, glancing towards him, nodding, and Jensen notes the gleam that’s appeared in his eyes, making his face seem more alive somehow. “I’m going to have to talk with you both a bit about the characters, of course; brainstorm a bit and see what we come up with, the usual. But there’s real chemistry between the pair of you - a real push-and-pull vibe - and if we can just capture a  _little bit_  of that on film, my god. This is going to sell.”

And there’s an honest to god grin on his face now, his ice tea seemingly forgotten and melting in his hand. Jensen thinks he might have to reconsider his opinion on the guy as a dead loss, because no one’s ever looked so ready to kiss him over his acting skills before and that has to count for something. They arrange individual meetings for the next day, and he walks out the room feeling strangely disorientated and slightly blown away for no obviously conceivable reason.

Jared hooks an arm around his shoulders as they walk and yanks him into his chest, loudly crowing, “We rule, man. Rule.”

He smells of washing powder and expensive aftershave, and Jensen pushes sharply way from him as soon as he recovers his equilibrium. He can’t ever remember Jared being so hands-on when they were filming Supernatural, and it’s making him feel damn antsy.

~

The last straw comes when he pulls back into the parking lot and Jared says, “Hey, you wanna bring this piece of junk back to my place and play some pool? I’ve got a whole cooler of beer,” with this huge, happy-as-you-like grin.

And at one stage, that would have been fine. Hell, Jared could have insulted his mother and Jensen would have insulted Jared’s father right back. But this sure as hell isn’t then, and only Jensen’s friends get to talk crap about his car.

“Get the fuck out,” he says, coming to a full stop with gravel crunching sharply under the tyres.

Jared looks at him as if he’s unsure whether or not he’s joking, his smile still at half-mast on his face.

“I mean it,” Jensen snarls. “Get out of my  _piece of junk_  car right now, Jared, or I fucking make you.”

“What did I -” Jared starts, confused, and Jensen breaks him off with a vicious snort of laughter, all the frustrations and anger of the day coming back full force.

“We are not  _friends_ , Jared,” he bites out. “You don’t get to fucking ask me round for a game of  _pool_. You don’t get to insult my car. You have been up in my face all day, shoving me and smiling and fucking  _humming_ , and I’d rather you just tried not to touch me at all in future. Just stay the fuck out of my personal space or we’re gonna fucking come to blows again, believe me.”

Jared’s not smiling anymore. He’s sitting very still, jaw clenched, staring straight out the windshield.

“Right,” he says, stiffly, after a pause. “I just thought -”

“You walked out on the best thing that had ever happened to me, Jared, and you didn’t even fucking care,” Jensen spits. “You thought wrong. Go back to your damn Porsche.”

Jared nods, fumbles open the door and slams it hard shut behind him. He walks stiffly over to his car without once looking back, and Jensen watches him for a bitter, hateful moment, before gunning the engine and pealing out of the parking lot.

The problem with brothers is that when one walks away, throws in the towel, doesn’t re-sign his contract, the other brother isn’t a brother anymore. Isn’t the other half of a gimmick. He’s just an ordinary guy, and an ordinary guy can’t carry show ratings by himself, however good he is.

Jensen swears, turns the radio up high and tries to forget how much he had once liked Jared.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Jensen turns around into Jared’s chest, stumbles backwards, tripping over the couch and into the side table, knocking both half-full cups of lukewarm coffee onto the floor, he doesn’t stop swearing until Jared stops smiling like he wants to laugh and the coffee has seeped fully into the carpet and dried.

The second time he does it, it’s water instead of coffee and one of the cups break. He kicks the wall and swears some more.

“This damn hole is too fucking small. How the hell are we supposed to rehearse in here?”

“You know,” Jared says, from where he’s lounging on the couch, “we could always practice somewhere else.”

“Yeah?” Jensen shoots back, aggressive and feeling pissed.

“Yeah,” Jared says calmly, and shrugs, watching Jensen carefully. “My house is free. And big.”

Jensen stiffens and turns away. Almost irrationally, he’s angry at Jared for even suggesting it, because Jared’s house isn’t neutral ground and Jared  _knows_ that. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, he says, “No, that’s okay. We can manage,” polite, formal, ignoring the way Jared’s exhale almost sounds like irritation, and walks over to the side table, righting it before kneeling down to collect the broken porcelain shards.

“I broke your cup,” he says into the awkwardness. “Sorry. You can have mine.”

“I can call someone.”

“No. That’s okay.”

It’s been three days since, and neither of them has once mentioned the fight. Chris had snorted over the phone when Jensen had told him, all spit and rage, and congratulated him on his most macho fight to date (“You fought over the honour of your  _car_ , man. Even I haven’t done that.”), and by the end of the night Jensen was feeling diffused and a bit of an asshole. He had meant to apologise the next day - nothing too over the top, just a  _my fault_ , _I’m a dick_ sort of thing - but Jared had been all smiles and laughter the following morning, sitting on the couch with coffee for him when he arrived, and it had been all too simple to take the easy route, go along with the feigned levity, pretend it wasn’t forced and escape the knock to his pride.

And if Jensen’s regretting that decision just a little bit now, with the stuttered conversation and heavy silences that go with it, it’s too late to do anything about it anyway.

“From the top?” he asks, carefully brushing the remains of the cup from his hands into the trash can by the door.

Jared sighs, says, “Yeah, sure,” and hauls himself to his feet again.

It doesn’t take long. They’re on the homestretch, the words becoming tighter as the situation becomes more desperate, and Jensen’s pacing with all of Dave’s frustration coiled up inside of him, ready to go off. He turns sharply, and Jared’s right there again, in his personal space, and it’s a knee-jerk reaction to take a step back, away, despite Jared’s warning, “ _Don’t_  -”. His heel catches the bottom of the couch and he flails backwards, Jared’s hand suddenly warm and strong about his wrist, attempting to keep him upright, but the momentum is too much and he topples over, bringing all six foot and excess of Padalecki down on top of him.

The floor isn’t soft and Jared isn’t light, and this is a damn sight closer to him than Jensen had ever wanted to be again. His face is buried in the curve between Jared’s neck and shoulder, one arm pinned to the floor beneath him and steadily throbbing, while the fingers of his other hand wrap tightly around Jared’s bicep and push, trying to shove him off.

“Get the fuck off me,” he says. “Get -” and then can’t say anything else as Jared’s elbow somehow connects with his solar plexus and all he can do is lie there and gasp.

Jared - both elbows suspiciously back under control - takes advantage, and braces his weight on his hands either side of Jensen’s head. “Come on,” he says, smiling down with white teeth and smug satisfaction. “My place has got to be better than this.” His hip bone is sharp where it digs into Jensen’s stomach, and one leg is hot and heavy between Jensen’s thighs, pinning him.

Jensen still can’t quite catch his breath, his lungs feeling empty and bruised, and he scowls and grits out, “Get off me,” with as much venom as he can muster. Jared rolls his eyes but does, reaching down and grasping Jensen’s hand to haul him upwards.

“I’m not joking, Jensen,” he says, not removing his grip so that Jensen can’t pull immediately away like he wants to. His eyes are dark brown and serious. “My house or yours, I don’t care. Anywhere’s better than this.”

Jared nods at him, slowly loosens his fingers and takes a step back. Jensen meets his eyes for a moment, then looks away. Pointedly rubbing the sore spot just below his ribcage, he collapses back onto the couch and doesn’t answer immediately. He considers his own home, messy and cramped, dirty dishes from a week ago still in the sink and the beer can sculpture in one corner that he and Chris still work on whenever they’re drunk and bored enough. And he knows that Jared’s far too polite to say anything, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t be  _thinking_  it, and Jensen’s not sure he wants to see that same momentary expression on Jared’s face - embarrassment? pity? - that he had when he had shown Jared his Mustang. Jensen’s still got some pride left, after all.

“If you weren’t so damn big,” he grumbles, without any real conviction. It doesn’t get a rise out of Jared, who’s just standing still, watching him expectantly. Waiting.

“Fine,” Jensen finally snaps. “Your place. Happy?”

“Yep,” Jared says, wide grin splitting across his face.

Jensen isn’t, not really. But Jared’s house should damn well be big enough to prevent any more falling on top of each other, and that, Jensen thinks sourly, should definitely be his primary lookout.

~

“So,” Andrew says, fixing Jensen with a bland stare over his croissant. It’s three in the afternoon in a small, quiet restaurant just south of the bustle of down town, and Jensen didn’t even know you could buy croissants after eleven am. “Tell me. How is it possible for you to hate a guy like Jared?”

Jensen chokes slightly on the swallow of coke he’s just taken and glances quickly up at the director, whose placid expression hasn’t changed.

“Who told you I hated him?” he asks, defensively.

“Jared.”

Jensen blinks at him, surprised. He had begun wondering whether Jared had even the vaguest comprehension of how he truly felt about him.

“He actually used the word  _hate_?”

Andrew inclines his head in the affirmative and reaches for his ice tea.

Jensen sits back and stares at him wordlessly for a long moment, trying to picture Jared spilling his heart out to the guy and failing. He wonders what Jared’s told Andrew about him - about his and Jared’s history, what’s between them - and frowns, not comfortable with the idea.

“Hate’s not the right word,” he says, dismissively, not really wanting to talk about it.

“Oh?”

“No,” he says, abruptly, and if he sounds rude then that’s okay by him. “But don’t worry. It won’t mess with the shoot.”

Andrew shakes his head and takes another bite of croissant. “That’s not why I was asking,” he says, mildly. Jensen gets the impression that he’s faintly disapproving of the situation - of him - and bites back on an angry retort like  _Jared betrayed me_ or  _what do you know?_ or  _I never even wanted to be in this goddamn movie_. He likes Andrew and he’ll be damned if what’s between him and Jared gets between him and the director as well.

“I’ve been thinking about Dave,” he says, around the uncomfortable silence. “About him being more intelligent, like you said.”

He’d lain awake last night thinking about it. Had re-read his script all the way through, though much of it was just the mere formality of tracing his eyes over the letters, having committed most of the words and meaning behind the words to heart. By half past midnight, he thought he had it.

“And?” Andrew’s small, round eyes don’t leave his face.

“I think you’re right,” Jensen says, leaning forward. “But he’s not the type to flaunt it, you see. Unless he’s around Tom, that is, because he’s got this desire to prove himself, yeah? And that means being about as nasty and arrogant and smart as he can be.”

Andrew nods. “Interesting interpretation. I like it.” He pauses, frowns, as if working through his thoughts, and taps his right index finger against his chin. “Though you need to be careful not to define Dave solely through his relationship with Tom, Jensen. It’s an important factor, yes, but it’s not everything. Dave hasn’t seen Tom for three years before the setting of the movie, after all. He can survive by himself.”

Jensen clenches his fists beneath the table and nods wordlessly, embarrassment flushing through him in a tight, angry sort of way. Like Andrew’s accusing him of thinking Jared’s character is more important than his own. He changes the subject to the progression of the set, which immediately has Andrew groaning over an incompetent member of his production crew called Jack. Jack, apparently, is his nephew, but that wouldn’t have saved him from being out on his ass a long time ago if Andrew wasn’t quite so scared of the boy's mother.

An hour or two later, just before Jensen gets up to leave, Andrew invites him to supper on Saturday. He’s already invited Jared apparently and it’s a tradition, he says; something he does with all his actors before getting stuck right into a project. Jensen agrees, says goodbye and exits the restaurant feeling strangely ground down and tired.

~

Jared leaves directions on his voicemail, and Jensen finds the address in the morning without any real trouble (thinks it might have been more difficult for him  _not_ to have found the place, considering how freaking  _huge_ it is). He has to buzz to be let in, and a camera on top of the wrought iron gates angles down at him, the lens considering him for a long moment, before the gates slowly swing open. Jared himself comes out the front door, waving him towards the garage, and Jensen parks in the cool, white-washed gloom, feeling only slightly ridiculous as he gets out of his Mustang and surveys the two Ferraris, the silver Aston Martin and the Porsche parked next to him, all gleaming expensively.

At least there aren’t eight of them, he thinks, and steps back into the sunlight, smiling grimly at Jared as he crosses towards him over the sweeping, slate-grey drive.

“Hi,” he says.

“You came,” Jared says, grin as wide as ever, and he actually sounds surprised about it, relieved, like he thought it more likely Jensen would go barricade himself back up in their previous rehearsal room, just to be stubborn about it all.

“Come in, come in,” he says, and ushers Jensen up the porch step, through the solid oak door and into the lobby. “I’ll give you a bit of a tour. The place is pretty big and I kept getting lost when I first moved in. It’ll make it easier for you - you ever want to get out, you’ll know the quickest way to the door.”

The words fall heavy between them. Jared smiles briefly, turns, and pads in front of Jensen, bare feet brown in contrast to the pale cream carpet. Jensen feels the tension and regrets it for a moment. Remembers what Andrew had said - he still hasn’t quite managed to get the word  _hate_ out of the back of his mind - and grudgingly regrets that too. He follows.

Being shown around Jared’s home is like watching an episode of  _Cribs_ , only with the added bite of real envy. A cream and brown and glass living room, huge, with windows that stretch from wall to wall, overlooking the glistening water of the pool outside; the den, with pool table and a flat screen TV on one wall, a mess of game consoles and wires beneath it; a room holding shelves of awards, framed promotional posters of Jared’s movies hanging from the walls, a wide desk with a new Apple laptop on the glossy surface and nothing much else; five bedrooms; four bathrooms; a gym; a chrome and terracotta kitchen, with a huge double refrigerator that Jared pulls orange juice out of and waves at Jensen.

“Juice?” he asks. Jensen nods, slightly overwhelmed, and Jared pours. “Look,” he says, “ _tumblers_ ,” as he hands one to Jensen. Jensen gives a faint smile of appreciation and raises the juice to his lips, swallowing half of it down at once. Hell, even Jared’s  _OJ_ tastes a damn sight better than his does at home, fresh and sweet, and Jensen’s trying not to think  _I could have had this if it wasn’t for you_ but he’s only human after all. He’s beginning to wish he’d pushed to stay at their previous location.

There’s a scratching sound from a door that looks like it could lead outside, and Jared mumbles something under his breath, rolls his eyes, and opens it to be barrelled down by a loud, excited mess of wagging tails and panting tongues. He gives as good as he gets for a moment, grinning and laughing and rubbing his hands over glossy coats, before pushing the dogs off him and getting up off his knees. Despite himself, Jensen smiles into his orange juice.

“Three? Who’s the new addition?” he asks, and hurriedly puts his drink safely back on the counter as the dogs’ attentions shift and they rush at him, sniffing at his hands and trying to jump up. He can recognise both Sadie and Harley, though he could never tell them apart back when he was around Jared’s every other day, so he’ll be damned if he can do so now. The newcomer is soft and sleek and golden with dark eyes, and is easily making more noise than the other two combined; a retriever maybe, although Jensen’s never been all that hot on dog types.

Jared beams at him. “Josie. She’s still a baby really. Four months old. Only just managed to stop her chewing on the furniture. She still nips, though.”

Jensen snatches his hands back and glares at him.

“Don’t worry,” Jared says, nobly. “I’ll shut them in here when we practice. Come on.”

He leads Jensen through the hall and into another room, big enough to fit Jensen’s own bedroom and kitchen in combined. It’s spacious and airy, the windows showing off the three trees shading this side of the drive, lush greenery and twisted branches, older than the house most likely, almost completely blocking from sight the high wall which encircles the property. There’s nothing neat or unnatural or  _grown in a nursery_ about them, and Jensen can almost believe that they’re not in LA anymore.

“This is the dining room but it’s not like I use it much anyway so I moved the table out.” Jared shrugs and says casually, “If it’s not okay, we can always try a different room.”

Jensen looks at the couch in the corner which doesn’t quite fit in with the colour scheme, the small table placed thoughtfully next to it with a jotter and pencil and a jug of iced water ready, the two chairs against one wall which they’d need for the fifth scene and again in the twenty-first. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and privately wonders if Jared went through all the downstairs rooms, checking out which one had the best acoustics first.

“What scene do you want to do?” he asks, stepping on the heels of his shoes and kicking them off. He stoops, picks them up and places them neatly against the wall, thinking that if Jared made an effort he should at least do what he can to meet it.

“We have chairs,” Jared says, gesturing grandly. “We do chair scenes.”

“’Kay.” Jensen flicks to the right page and leaves it open on the couch; both he and Jared know their lines pretty well for the fifth scene, being early on and not too complicated, but it’s always best to be prepared for the screw up before it happens. Jared places the chairs in the centre of the room, opposite each other but not too far apart, and sits down in one. Jensen takes the other and immediately kicks his feet up onto the corner of Jared’s seat, crossing them at the ankle, the heat of Jared’s thigh soaking through his sock and into the side of his foot. Jensen slouches back, while Jared rolls his shoulders and remains straight-backed because, even drunk, Tom Westbury finds it hard to let go.

Jensen knows that this scene isn’t much more than a ‘get to know the characters, their dynamic and their past’ scene, but he really likes it. Yes, they’re drunk and, yes, that can be fucking difficult to get right, but if they  _do_  then, man, this will be killer. With humour, bite and a conclusion to really get the ball rolling.

They get stuck into it, words smooth off the tongue, slightly jumbled in places, with less hesitation before questions asked and drunkenly thoughtful gaps before answers. Jensen’s gotten drunk with Jared on enough occasions in the past to recognise that he’s drawing on his own experiences; sitting with Tom’s stiffness, saying Tom’s words, but tilting his head to the side, idly playing with his fingers in his lap, and that’s all Jared. It reminds Jensen of bars in Vancouver, sometimes packed and loud and hot, sometimes just him and Jared and a bottle, and he stutters unconvincingly over his next line, almost overwhelmed with the feeling of  _then_.

“Do you like me?” Jared asks, his eyes focused on Jensen’s face with an intensity that feels wrong for how drunk Tom’s meant to be.

Jensen blinks slowly, like he’s considering the words very carefully. “Do  _you_  like  _me_?” he finally returns, sly.

Jared frowns and shrugs lopsidedly. “I don’t know,” he says. “Yes, I suppose?”

Jensen lets out a loud unfriendly bark of laughter. “You talk shit.”

Jared’s eyes narrow and he shoves Jensen’s feet off his chair, standing sharply upwards. “You know me that well, do you, Benson?” he says.

Jensen ignores him. “I just don’t get why you came to me of all people,” he remarks, more to himself than anything, picking at the front of his t-shirt. Then: “What the hell?” He frowns, and turns abruptly in his chair, as if hearing the doorbell. “I think someone’s at your door,” he says, helpfully.

Jared strides past him - Tom still angry, drunk and a little uncertain - and waits a couple of beats before saying, “Holy shit. What -  _no_. No no no.”

Jensen tries really hard not to laugh and almost succeeds as he swivels his ass around on the chair to look at the other man.

“What?” Jared asks, out of character and looking a little annoyed.

“Dude, they’ve just  _skinned_  your cat and nailed its  _carcass_  to your front door, and you sound like you need dental surgery. That was fucking  _awful_.”

“Blow me,” Jared says, a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. “I never was a cat person.”

It’s true. Jensen thinks he might have a word with Andrew. It wouldn’t take the script people five minutes to change Sooty into Fido, after all, and it might be slightly cruel but he doesn’t think anyone would be able to criticise Jared’s performance afterwards. Jensen’s kind of interested to see what the effects guys can do with a skinned dog.

He decides not to mention the direction of his thoughts to Jared.

They take a break and snack on cheese rolls and grapes while discussing the twenty-first scene. They’ve never developed it further than a standard read-through, and it’s the crucial scene where Tom, the hero, becomes a hell of a sight more ambiguous when he ties Dave up and leaves him to what could very likely be an extremely unpleasant death. There’s a lot of hatred in it, a lot of fear, and Jensen personally thinks it’s the real climax of the film.

When Jared asks whether he can tie him up, however, to get the full feel of the scene, Jensen point blank refuses. He says he’ll need to keep a hold of a script because he doesn’t know the lines well enough.

And he doesn’t know them. Not really.

~

On Wednesday, Jared doesn’t take no for an answer, and bundles Jensen into his Porsche to drive out to the studio to get their measurements taken by the costume department. On the way back, they stop off at Starbucks, and Jensen’s still trying to make as little mess over the interior as possible with what has to be the crumbliest muffin since people started putting water in the mix, when Jared pulls into his drive, says, “Holy shit,” and starts grinning like a maniac. He tumbles out of the car, doesn’t shut the door, and makes a beeline for the house, leaving Jensen still holding his coffee and staring at the blue Ferrari parked in the Porsche’s spot in the garage, a bad taste in his mouth.

He undoes his seatbelt, shuts the car door behind him and, with considerably less enthusiasm than Jared, walks up the porch step and into the house.

Inside, Jensen follows the noise to the living room, and stares coolly down at Jared and Chad roughhousing on the floor. When Supernatural had reached its messy conclusion, Jensen wasn’t speaking to Jared, Chad wanted to beat on Jensen, Kane said he  _would_ beat on Murray if he tried it, and Tom and Mike were staying well out of it. Five years later, some things still hadn’t come to a head, and Jensen is just a little bit wary of Murray still. Apparently the guy can hold a grudge like no one else.

He clears his throat and says stiffly, “Hey, Jared. I’m gonna go now. Wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.”

Jared looks up, startled, like he’d forgotten anyone else was there. Getting up swiftly and offering a hand to Chad, he says, “Hey, no, don’t go, Jen. We’ve got loads of time to do some more practice and if this guy,” he elbows Chad in the ribs, seemingly unable to stop grinning with delight, “reckons I’m gonna drop everything at the sight of his ugly face, he’s got another thing coming.”

He looks sincere about it, but Jared’s just got that kind of face, Jensen thinks, uncharitably.

“Still -” he says.

Chad straightens up beside Jared and regards him with distinct frostiness. Next to Jared, the guy looks pretty short and Jensen’s fairly certain he could take him if it came down to it. From the way Chad’s glaring at him, he thinks it just might.

“Jensen,” Chad says curtly, with a short nod. “I was wondering whose car that was in the garage. I’ve been wanting one of those myself. Real fine piece of work, that. I thought it might have been the gardener’s.”

“ _Chad_ ,” Jared says, with a pained expression.

Jensen smiles through his teeth and really would have socked the guy one if he wasn’t aware that that would involve fighting over the honour of his car. Again. And really, Jensen thinks, he’s a bigger man than that.

“How’s your wife, Chad?” he asks, pleasantly. “Man, it must have  _sucked_ not being able to drink at your own wedding, huh? When  _will_  those fools at the White House lower that damn drinking age?”

“Okay, Jensen,” Jared interrupts loudly, fingers tight on Chad’s shoulder, holding him back. “Let’s go rehearse, yeah?” He turns to Chad and Jensen doesn’t miss the meaningful look he gives him. “Go get unpacked, man. We’ll be in the dining room if you want to come and watch.”

Chad snorts as if he’d rather have his fingernails systematically ripped out, picks up the holdall on the couch and brushes roughly past Jensen on his way to the stairs. Jensen follows him with his eyes for a moment, then turns and follows Jared into the dining room, still itching to get the hell out and back to his own house, which  _may_  be small and cramped and crappy, but is still winning out over this place, hands down.

“Oh,” Jared says, “by the way, Chad’s leaving for New York on Sunday morning."  
  
 _Whoopee?_  Jensen thinks, as he flips idly through his script, wondering why Jared would think he’s in any way interested in the news. “Chad’s leaving  _tomorrow_ ” would be infinitely better.

“I was thinking of inviting him to Andrew’s meal,” Jared says, uncertainly. “You wouldn’t mind, right? I mean, it would suck for him to have to spend his last evening alone.” He’s looking at Jensen earnestly, like he holds the answer to world peace in his hands.

All Jensen can think is  _fuck_. Life is truly fucking mean.


	4. Chapter 4

On Thursday, Jared asks Jensen whether they can finish up early - says he and Chad thought they’d go out for Chinese and Chad says the  _only_  place for real Chinese is an hour’s drive into the middle of nowhere. He apologises for it, calls Chad a prissy bitch and laughs. Jensen just smiles tightly but goes home at four o’clock without arguing. It’s not like he wants to stay with Jared, after all.

Friday morning, Jensen’s got Jared backed up against the wall in his dining room, fingers twisting into the heart of his polo and snarling questions into his face. He stumbles over a sentence, blanks on the next line, and asks Jared whether he knows what comes next. Jared says, “Doesn’t it have something to do with me knowing Hannah from before? Oh, and can we can we call it quits at half two? I swear, Chad’s worse than my freaking dogs, man. Just can’t sit still by himself. We’re going to the movies or something.”

Jensen nods, and his fingers tighten briefly in the fabric of Jared’s shirt, blood squeezing out of his fist. He goes home and has no idea what to do with himself, other than to go over his script.

On Saturday, Jared’s phonecall wakes Jensen up.  
  
_Hey, Jensen,_  he says,  _I’m so sorry about this. I know we said we were going to rehearse today and everything, but Chad -_

His voice is all sincerity and regret, and Jensen doesn’t give a damn.

“What the fuck ever, Jared,” he says, shortly. “Go play with Chad. I’ll see you tonight.”  
  
_Hey, no, wait,_  Jared says, sounding alarmed and somewhat surprised. _If you want to rehearse, we can rehearse, Jen. Seriously. I’d rather -_

Jensen hangs up on him and rolls over, burying his head back into his pillow. When his cell starts up again only a couple of beats later, loud and persistent, he swears, fumbles with his outstretched hand, and turns it off. He’s feeling hateful and resentful, and he doesn’t want Jared’s heartfelt apologies and gentle coaxing to ruin that in the slightest.

~

When Jensen finally gets up, it’s after twelve, and he picks at cold take-out from the night before whilst nursing his second cup of coffee to his chest, feeling generally sorry for himself and irritable. He still hates Jared, he  _knows_ he does, and the fact that ever since Chad Michael Murray arrived and his thoughts have gone all twelve-year-old school girl and ‘he’s taking Jared away from me’ on him, just means that he hates Chad more. And that’s fine by him, he tells himself: Jared may have walked out on Supernatural, but Jensen’s always suspected Chad to be a bit of an asshole. There’s something to be said for a bit of continuity.

In the middle of the kitchen table there’s a scrap of paper with the words  _Saturday, 8.30, Marlowe’s_ scrawled on it with red pen, and Jensen glares at it fixedly for a long moment, wondering if anyone would believe him if he begged off sick. Then he gets angry because Andrew is holding the meal for him just as much as Jared, and there is no way he isn’t going to turn up just because Jared decided it was a damn free-for-all and invited Chad. All the same, Jensen doesn’t want to sit opposite Chad and politely take his shit all evening, unable to retaliate (a fucking fist in the jaw) because they’re in the middle of one of the fanciest restaurants in LA, with Jared on one side and Andrew on the other.

There’s only one way to level the playing field, he thinks, and he had been skirting around the idea for a while, never really considering it fully until Jared’s phone call that morning, and his phone is by his ear and calling before cold rationality has a chance to catch up.

“Chris,” he says, with a grin into the headset, when the other end is finally picked up. “Wanna come on a double date with me tonight?”

And it’s a bad idea, a  _very_  bad idea, and he knows that, but can’t really bring himself to care.

~

They’re running fifteen minutes late by the time Jensen’s Mustang finally pulls into the lot for  _Marlowe’s_.

Chris had arrived in black dress pants and jacket, hair gelled neatly away from his face and jaw rough with stubble, with five minutes to spare, and had spent those five - and an added ten - yelling insults at Jensen and Jensen’s family and “Just hurry up already, dickweed,” from the kitchen, while drinking a beer, feet kicked up on the table.

Jensen had shaved and immediately wished he hadn’t, because a six ’o clock shadow went a long way towards making him not look like a damn twenty-year-old. Then he’d tried on his dress pants and jacket, gun metal grey and thinning from wear about the knees and the elbows, before thinking that Jared might possibly remember them as being the selfsame dress pants and jacket that he’d been wearing two years ago, and wouldn’t that be just a perfect reminder of who didn’t have any money and whose career had ground to a halt? So he had changed, but even his smartest pair of jeans and shirt wouldn’t be smart enough for  _Marlowe’s_ , he knew, so he changed resignedly back - screw Jared anyway, it wasn’t like Jensen  _cared_  for his opinion - and had started fretting with his hair instead which would just not  _behave_.

When he had finally been done, they were already ten minutes late, Chris wouldn’t stop calling him a girl and Jensen still didn’t feel comfortable in his own skin. Then they had met traffic on their way into the city proper, lost another five minutes, and Jensen was getting the feeling that he had been doomed from the start.

At the desk, they ask for the Andrew Mannings table, and a beautiful hostess in her late thirties smiles at them in a decidedly non-flirtatious manner and tells them to follow her. They pass by table after table filled with the very rich: anonymous businessmen with girls on their arms and cigars between their fingers, high profile lawyers and agents smiling with whitened teeth and sharp eyes, famous beautiful faces from the movies and TV. It overwhelms Jensen to think that this is the sort of company he’s keeping nowadays, and he’s grateful with a fierce sort of jolt that Chris is just behind him.

Jared and Chad are sitting side by side at the table they are finally brought to, laughing about something over the wine list. When Jared looks up and sees them, there’s a momentary flicker of a frown as he looks past Jensen to where Chris is standing, but then he’s standing and grinning and Jensen could almost think that he imagined it.

“Jensen, Chris, hey,” he says easily, running a hand through his hair. “We weren’t sure you were going to turn up.”

“Almost didn’t,” Chris drawls, with a smirk and a flash of his eyes towards Chad, who’s leaning back in his chair, glaring at them both.

“Yeah, sorry,” Jensen says, casting a warning look towards Chris and pulling back his chair to sit down. “Traffic was a bitch. Andrew not here yet?”

“Oh,” Jared says. “He’s not coming. He phoned me this morning to tell me. There’s some sort of studio executive thing that they’ve rescheduled and he can’t get out of and he was kind of pissed about it all.” He ducks his head to look back down at the wine list, shrugs lopsidedly in a manner which is almost embarrassed and says, “He wanted me to pass the message on, but I didn’t think you’d come if I did.”

Jensen stares at him in amazement, unable to think of anything to say which isn’t an angry: “You fucking  _think_?”. The very idea that Jared would have made him come alone to a meal with him and  _Chad Michael Murray_ is almost enough to make him want to get up and leave right now, because Jared knows exactly how Jensen feels about the pair of them, and that’s just bordering on fucking cruel.

 _Thank God for Chris_ , is all he can think.

He sits there, silently stewing, and it’s Chris who ends up having to agree with Jared’s choice of wine although the question isn’t actually angled at him. When the waiter returns with two bottles of the stuff, Jensen gulps down half a glass without even really tasting it and just wishes he wasn’t driving that night.

They open their menus and Jensen almost bites down on his tongue when he gets a look at the prices. He shares a sidelong look with Chris, promptly scans down the price list and chooses the mutton, which is about ten dollars cheaper than the truffle omelette but still about the amount he paid as a first deposit on his car.

“You should really try the lobster bisque,” Jared says to him, leaning a good way across the table and towards Jensen to point it out on the menu. Jensen can smell his aftershave, subtle and expensive. “Freaking  _amazing_ , man.”

The lobster is about three times as much as his mutton, and Jensen makes a noncommittal noise and takes another gulp of wine.

“So, Chris,” Jared says. “What’ve you been up to since I saw you last?”

Chris shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Nothing much. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Done some more recording recently.”

“Yeah? That’s cool,” Jared says, as Chad asks, “It any good this time?” with a small, sly turn up to his lips.

Chris regards Chad lazily for a moment, then shrugs. “The people I’ve talked to seem to think so. But then, who can trust a critic, right? Hell, I read some talk about your last film, and shit, boy, that stuff was funny. But you’re making another one, right? So you can’t have taken what they were saying to heart. And that’s good. A real learning curve, you know?” Chris smiles with white teeth and a  _fuck you_ sort of air, and Chad stares at him, tight lipped, hands gripped into fists on top of the smooth, cream tablecloth.

“Shall we order?” Jared asks pleasantly, and a tiny, brunette waitress seems to materialise by his side as soon as he’s said it. She smiles at him prettily and stares raptly at his profile as he glances back down at his menu.

“I’ll have the bisque,” he says, pointing to it.

The girl jots it down carefully with a slightly breathless, “Yes, Mr Padalecki,” and it’s all Jensen can do to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Chad orders steak, Chris the mutton, and when Jensen says, “I’ll have the same, thanks,” Jared says, “Mutton, man? Come on. Go for the bisque.”

Jensen smiles tightly and firmly repeats, “Mutton for me, thanks,” to the waitress, who’s staring at Jared and looking torn.

“He’ll have the bisque,” Jared says, grinning, and winks at her.

Jensen grits his teeth. “I will not.”

“Seriously, Jensen,” Jared says, waving his comment away. “It’s awesome. Just go for it. You won’t be sorry.”

And it’s ridiculous, because of course Jensen doesn’t want damn mutton, but his shoulders are tense and his jaw is aching and violence is swelling in his chest because Jared Padalecki can be a fucking moron sometimes.

“No,” he says, viciously. “I want the fucking mutton, Jared. I can order for my damn self so back the hell off.”

The table is awkwardly silent for a moment. Jared frowns, looking kind of hurt, then shrugs and says quietly, “Fine, the mutton. It’s probably just as good.”

Chad smirks knowingly across the table at him, and Jensen tries really hard to ignore him.

The conversation is stilted after that - not that it was particularly good to begin with - and when the food arrives, they eat in silence. Jared’s bisque smells like heaven, and Jensen pushes his mutton about his plate, not really hungry anymore.

Afterwards, he and Chris both decline dessert and watch as Jared and Chad tuck into bonoffee pie and lemon curd tart respectively, pointing and laughing about something on the other side of the restaurant, behind Jensen’s head. Jensen grips his wine glass hard and doesn’t turn around to look, just drinks some more until he feels light headed enough to know he needs coffee.

The check comes with little foil-wrapped chocolate mints and steaming espressos. Jared doesn’t even look at it, just places his card down on the little tray without comment, and that rankles with Jensen.

“Can I see it?” he asks, hand outstretched, and Jared looks at him for a moment, then shrugs and pushes it towards him.

The wine alone cost upwards of five hundred dollars, and Jensen thinks back guiltily to the amount he had gulped down without even tasting. Added to that the amount of four mains and two desserts, and Jensen isn’t sure his credit card would be able to manage even half of it. He’s resolved though, because he and Jared are equals, despite what everyone else seems to damn well think.

“We'll split it,” he says, fumbling his wallet out of his back pocket.

Jared and Chad both stare at him, and Chris kicks him hard in the shin beneath the table.

“Hey, no, man,” Jared says. “My treat.”

“I insist,” Jensen says, and Jared looks at him doubtfully in such a way that Jensen knows he’s thinking of the mutton-bisque incident, and isn’t quite sure how hard it’s safe for him to push.

He adds his credit card to Jared’s on the tray and says, “Really.”

“Jensen,” Chris says abruptly, and stands. “I need to talk to you.”

Jensen hesitates and Chris says, “ _Now_ ,” putting a firm hand under his elbow and steering him up out of his seat. He glances towards Jared and Chad and says, “We’ll be back with you boys shortly,” then shoves Jensen in the direction of the sign saying  _restroom_.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks, fiercely, as he pushes Jensen into the room and against the sinks. “You can’t afford half of that. Hell, you can’t afford a damn quarter.”

“I can,” Jensen retorts, stubbornly.

“We’re discounting selling a kidney here, you idiot. Have you completely lost your mind?”

“I’m not going to let Jared pay for all of it.”

Chris shakes his head and stares at him in frustration. “Jared can damn well afford to buy this place, let alone comfortably look after one check. And he fucking wants to do it, he offered, so just let him.”

“I’m not going to be - not going to be fucking  _wined and dined_ by Jared, alright?” Jensen grits out. “You don’t have to work with him. I’m not going to be the damn - the damn  _girl_  in our relationship. No fucking way.”

“What  _relationship_?” Chris demands, a hand against his shoulder gripping hard, as if wanting to shake him. “You  _have_  no fucking relationship with the guy. Anything between the pair of you ended five years ago, remember? You damn well hate him, Jensen, so what the hell has gotten into you?”

Jensen shuts his eyes and leans back against the sinks, breathing steadily, in, out. He’s got a headache forming right behind his temples and Chris is right, Jensen  _knows_ he’s right, and he just wants to get the fuck out of here. He never wanted to come in the first place.

“Yeah,” he says, softly. “Yeah, alright.”

There’s a pause, and Chris’ grip lessens on his shoulder.

“Stubborn asshole,” he says fondly, with none of the bite from before. Then: “Come on.” He drapes a heavy arm across Jensen’s shoulders and levers him away from the sink and towards the door.

Back at the table, Jensen’s card is lying in front of his place and Jared is sitting stiffly, a defiant tilt to his head and a challenge in his eyes.

“It was my treat,” he says, firmly.

He shifts in his chair and it looks like he wants to brace himself against Jensen’s reaction. Jensen just sighs tiredly, feeling somewhat ashamed, shakes his head and says, “Yeah, thanks, Jared.”

Chad’s looking at him with too sharp eyes, and Jensen’s perfectly content to say a short, hasty goodbye and follow Chris out of the restaurant and into the cool night air.

~

The next morning and Jensen’s head is still aching slightly, so he pops two aspirins, downs a glass of orange juice and is beginning to feel vaguely human by the time his cell starts vibrating at just past eleven.

There’s a short silence, then:  _Hey, Jensen._

“Jared.”

There’s another pause and Jensen thinks this might just be as awkward as they’ve ever been with each other and he’s not entirely sure why. Maybe because, for once, Jared isn’t happily filling every break in conversation.  Jensen struggles to come up with something half-intelligent to say.

“Has Chad left already?”  
  
_Yeah,_  Jared says, and breathes static down the line.  _Hey, I was wondering whether you wanna come 'round? Maybe go over a couple of scenes and catch up on the time we missed this week together. What do you think?_

Jensen never has any plans on a Sunday, but he’s certainly not going to let Jared know that. Jared was the one who didn’t want to practice this week and Jensen will be damned if he lets him wholly dictate his schedule on whim. “Nah, sorry. Busy. Me and Chris were going to hang out.”   
  
_Oh,_  Jared says, and Jensen doesn’t think he’s imagining the disappointment in his voice.  _That’s okay. I just thought, you know, with us beginning filming on Monday that maybe we should - Never mind. It was stupid. I’ll see you Monday morning then, huh?_

“Yeah,” Jensen says, and feels like an asshole. “Yeah, see you then.”

He hangs up, puts his phone in his back pocket, and makes a start on the washing up. Ten minutes later, he stops, pulls his cell back out with soapy hands and presses recall.

“When did you want to meet?” he asks, and wishes he had a bit more conviction.

~

Jared wants to do the twenty-first scene, says they still haven’t really gone over that one fully yet, and that's okay by Jensen and he says it is, also says: "You're not tying me up."

Jared grins at him and they set the chairs up in the dining room in the first remotely comfortable silence they’ve had since Jensen arrived at one o’clock.

“You’re an asshole,” Jensen says, in Dave’s voice, sitting uncomfortably straight in the chair in the centre of the room, arms wrapped behind the backrest and ankles against the chair’s legs. He thinks about the ropes, struggles abortively against their imaginary hold. “You’re not going to get away with this, you hear?” He pauses, then: “Tom, you damn coward, let me go,” he says, and that last bit rises slightly, almost like a plea.

Jared’s behind him when he says, “You asked for this, Dave,” quiet and soft, and Jensen struggles some more and grunts with frustration when the ropes in his head don’t budge.

“You can’t be serious about doing this,” he says, almost whines, and it’s desperation he should be feeling now, rising panic. “They’ll kill me, Tom. You know they will. They find me like this and they’ll put a gun to my head and shoot me. Hell. They’ll shoot my brains all over the fucking _wall_.” He’s breathing heavier now, and he murmurs, “Crap,” in a small, tight voice, struggles some more, and wonders what it would be like to know you were dead before anyone even pulled the trigger.

Jared moves so softly it’s a bit of a surprise when he brushes past Jensen’s arm, fingers lingering over the sharp angle of his shoulder for a moment, and Jensen hates the touch more than anything - knows Dave would fucking bite and spit and curse to get Tom away from him because Dave doesn’t like to be touched at the best of times, and this is just increasing the betrayal - and jerks away from it, his hands coming away from behind him momentarily.

If Jared notices, he doesn’t make any comment, and he looks grimly down at Jensen for a long, unpleasant moment. It makes Jensen want to squirm away, and he shifts a little, swallows, and glares back.

“It has to be this way,” Jared says, his voice still soft.  He crouches down by Jensen’s side, a warm hand covering his knee, and Jensen’s thigh spasms with the need to jerk away. They hadn’t talked about this, this  _touching_ , and Jensen’s feeling hot and uncomfortable, not entirely sure whether this is Tom or  _Jared_  but unnerved either way.

“It _doesn’t_ ,” he grits out. “It really, _really_ doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does,” Jared says, firmly. “It’s the only way I can catch these guys. I’m sorry.”

“And that makes it all okay, does it?” Jensen asks, furious. “Because _you’re sorry_? Let me tell you a little bit about being sorry. I’m  _sorry_ I ever met you. I’m  _sorry_ I ever helped you. And I’m really, really fucking  _sorry_ that I ever trusted you enough to think you were my damn friend. You've only ever taken from me and then betrayed me with your shit, you selfish son of a bitch.”

Jared’s expression tightens, and if they manage to catch that on film, it’ll make the whole scene worthwhile, Jensen thinks. Jared's fingers squeeze into Jensen’s flesh, tight on the tendons behind Jensen’s knee, and Jensen bites his tongue, angry and helpless only  _not really_. His mouth feels dry and he thinks the aspirin is beginning to wear off.

“I’m sorry,” Jared says again, with an air of finality, and it’s almost angry. He gets up smoothly and walks stiffly off to the side - offstage - where Jensen can see him relax from out of the corner of his eye; Jared once more, rather than Tom.

Jensen’s still on camera though, and he struggles against his pretend restraints, cursing and frustrated and pissed and scared. The scene is meant to end with his complete breakdown, and Jensen can see it in his mind’s eye: his jerky, panicky struggles gradually weakening, his head finally dropping down against his chest, his shoulders beginning to shudder with sobs, while the camera pans slowly upwards, away from him, and the picture fades to black. He can see it but he can’t _feel it_ , and something’s frustratingly off.

Suddenly, large, strong hands are wrapped about his wrists, keeping his hands behind his back and pinned together, and Jared’s voice is a hot whisper in his ear. “Struggle against me,” he says. “It’ll make a difference, you’ll see.”

And Jensen’s already trying to jerk away from him although it has nothing to do with Jared’s suggestion, his wrists twisting almost painfully in Jared’s grip, while he scrabbles with his feet for enough purchase to shove Jared away from him. But Jared isn’t budging and Jensen’s heartbeat is a thick panic in his chest and he struggles against him with a real desperation he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Get off me,” he says. “Get off me, Jared, seriously. I don’t -”

“Relax, Jensen,” Jared says, soft and reassuring, words careful against his ear. “You’re Dave and you’ve just been tied up in a basement by your best friend. You think you’re going to die. You think Tom’s betrayed you and you really fucking don’t want to die but you just can’t get free and you’re going to die if you can’t. You’re scared and you’re angry and there’s just no way out. Think of it like that. You’re in a basement and you’re tied up. Nothing else.”

And Jensen’s got the image in his mind’s eye again, that camera panning upwards, and he twists his wrists twice more against Jared’s unrelenting grip and feels like a fucking failure. Feels alone and incapable and really fucking unhappy.

“Okay,” he says, softly, and slumps backwards against the chair. “Okay, Jared. I get it. That’s enough.”

Jared slowly lets go and Jensen brings his hands around to his front, his heart still loud in his chest although his breathing has steadied, and stares at his fingers for a moment. Then he gets up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, casually, and Jared nods, a small frown on his face.

He walks him to the door, opens it, and leans against the frame. “You alright, Jensen?” he asks. He nods to the dining room and shrugs. “I had to be tied up in a movie this one time and my coach did that and it just clicked, you know? I thought it might be helpful.”

Jensen smiles tightly, nods, but doesn’t say anything. He sketches a half hearted wave goodbye and makes his way down the porch steps, into the garage and into his car. Starting it up, he sits in the driver’s seat for a moment, then puts his hands on the wheel and reverses out. He has to grip the wheel tightly to prevent his hands from shaking.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The thing about working with the guy who regularly makes  _Time Magazine_  ask “Orlando Bloom, who?” and has won out against Johnny Depp in  _Entertainment Weekly_ ’spopularity poll three times running, Jensen thinks sourly, is that it really kind of sucks.

And it’s only the  _first day_ , for Christ’s sake.

Because having to get up at the asscrack of dawn every morning is going to be bad enough. But having to sit around waiting while all  _five_  of the make-up girls fawn over Jared and he smiles and jokes and flirts easily back, stupid grin wide on his stupid face, all Texan charm and  _call me Jared_  - well, that’s just going to really begin grating after the first couple of times, Jensen can tell.

He sits and glowers into his coffee and when the blonde one with the greying roots - Kathy or Kimmy or what the fuck ever - looks at her watch, swears, and finally deigns to pull herself away from Jared to actually do her job, she takes one look at Jensen, sighs, and says exasperatedly, “Honey, sleep isn’t overrated. Now hold still while I try to get rid of these bags.”

Jensen grits his teeth, thinks about the money and doesn’t say a word. Next to him, Jared’s being asked for his autograph. Apparently George Henry Junior will be just  _thrilled_.

~

He had begun suspecting that the shoot might not be quite so much fun as he had been hoping - and that really hadn’t been a whole lot to begin with - around about the time that he realised Jared’s trailer was roughly twice the size of his own, and Jensen can’t remember there ever being any mention of  _that_ in the contract he signed.

The trailers are positioned side by side - just to make comparison of square footage real easy - which means he’s going to be stuck walking to and fro with his co-star more than he’d truthfully like, and on the way back from makeup and costume, Jared is greeted happily by every other person they come across. He leans close into Jensen as they continue walking and confidentially says, “That’s the great thing about working with a studio more than once. You meet everyone again. They’re all awesome here. So friendly,” and Jensen nods, smiles tightly and shoves his hands deep within the pockets of Dave’s pants without comment. Somehow, he doesn’t think that Jared would have got quite so much attention if he was just a lighting guy, but if Jared wants to play dumb about it then that’s fine with him.

“You want to come up for breakfast?” Jared asks from the steps of his trailer, hand on the door handle. “I’ve got fresh bagels.”

Jensen pauses, thinks about the dry piece of toast he’d managed to consume between showering and dressing, and his stomach gurgles pitifully. It’s not like he’s got anything to do in his trailer except sitting and listing the ways in which the day could get worse, and he really  _likes_  bagels.

“Yeah,” he says, surprised at himself. “Yeah, okay.”

Jared grins and holds open the door, gesturing him on in, and Jensen doubles back on the couple of steps he’d taken towards his own trailer and casually pushes past Jared, his arm brushing against his chest for one brief moment. The material of the shirt Jared is wearing is crisp and cool against his skin, and it’s not what Jensen would have pictured Tom in, but he guesses it works well enough.

Inside, Jensen’s not too surprised to see that Jared’s trailer is twice as big  _and_ twice as nice as his is, and he hovers near the doorway by the beige leather couch set into the wall, unsure of quite what to do with himself and having the fleeting notion of getting out before it’s too late. Jared’s got an xbox to go with his bigger TV, he notices absently. Jared’s got a full blown kitchenette. Jared’s got fucking  _flowers_ , for Christ’s sake.

A large hand at the small of his back gently pushes him forward, and Jared says, “Sit your ass down, Ackles. Trailer rules, remember. One man standing room only.”

Jensen can’t quite catch the surprised laughter in his throat, and it reverberates in his chest loud and harsh as he turns to Jared.

“Trailer rules only apply when the trailer isn’t pretending to be a small condo, dumbass.”

Jared cocks an eyebrow, places a hand in the centre of Jensen’s chest and says, “Bite me,” all smooth and deliberate, before pushing sharply and sending him sprawling backwards onto the couch. Jensen’s still laughing as his back hits the butter-soft upholstery and he looks up to find Jared grinning down at him, all mock affront, and for a moment, just a moment, it’s maybe almost like it was. Then their eyes meet and realisation hits Jensen and he stiffens, only slightly, but Jared must have caught it because he’s already hunching his shoulders in that way he does, turning away, and something kind of  _aches_  inside Jensen and he feels almost regretful for a moment.

“So,” Jared says into the awkwardness, his back to Jensen as he walks to the refrigerator. “What do you want on your bagel?”

Jensen’s not even sure he wants a damn bagel anymore. He straightens and sits fully upwards on the couch.

“Cream cheese is great, if you’ve got it.”

Jared nods and gets started, pulling things out of the fridge, putting bagels in the toaster and grabbing plates. He does it all in stony silence, and Jensen fidgets with discomfort while trying his best to look casual and relaxed. When Jared finally turns around, two plates secure in his wide grip, it’s something of a relief, and he hands one to Jensen before sitting a very respectable distance away from him on the other side of the couch.

Jensen gives him a small smile and mutters his thanks, then stares down at his bagel.

“It’s parma ham,” Jared says shortly, not touching his own and not looking at Jensen. “I didn’t have any bacon.” It’s not an apology but feels as damn near to spiteful as Jared gets.

“Right,” replies Jensen and pauses, then uncertainly takes a small bite. The ham is smoky and delicious, the cheese cool and creamy, but his appetite is gone and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to finish it. He remembers early morning starts in Vancouver, him around at Jared’s house and the sky still dark outside. They would sit at the kitchen table and Jared would make him bagels with cream cheese and bacon, and back then Jensen had been pretty certain that they ranked up there with his grandma’s home cooking. Now, he just feels kind of sick to his stomach, and when it’s time to get back on set, it doesn’t make him feel any better to see that Jared leaves just as much of his bagel as he does.

They’re shooting the second scene and Andrew loves it, Jensen knows, because his directions become shorter, more abrupt, as if he doesn’t want to jinx a good thing, and he gets pissed off at any delay the crew give him. When they wrap for the day, he claps them both on the back in an uncharacteristic display of emotion and says, “Absolutely super, boys. Fantastic. I’ve never seen you do it angrier. Such restrained aggression. Whatever you two have been doing together, it’s really working.”

Jensen and Jared don’t say goodbye to each other that evening.

~

Jensen frowns and glances impatiently at his watch, checking for the fourth time that he isn’t accidentally early. It’s Tuesday morning and Jensen’s been waiting outside his trailer for a good fifteen minutes, and Jared still hasn’t shown to walk to makeup with him. It’s not like him and Jensen’s trying not to worry because Jared will be just stuck in traffic or something equally stupid, but old habits die hard and all that.

Just as he’s thinking that he’ll wait another five minutes before heading off by himself, there’s the crunch of sneakers on stone and Jared rounds the side of his trailer, fresh faced with makeup and already in Tom’s clothes. He pauses when he sees Jensen, smiles slightly and sketches a wave. Jensen stares blankly at him for a moment, then completely ignores the greeting, turns on his heel and makes his way stiffly to the makeup trailer, silently cursing himself because what the fuck had he been thinking? So what if Jared had been waiting for him yesterday. Obviously he didn’t think that Jensen needed hand-holding anymore. Jensen had to get it through his thick skull that what had been something of a tradition in Vancouver meant shit all here.

Kathy or Kimmy clucks her tongue and says something about how being late on the second day doesn’t make the best impression. Jensen grits his teeth, sits down, and the pale girl with the dark hair smiles at him pityingly and tells him he has to relax his face because otherwise the powder will get in the scowl lines.

~

At lunch break, after a mediocre shoot, Jared collects his usual two portions of food from the catering tent and takes it straight back to his trailer. Jensen watches him go out of the corner of his eye before smiling sunnily at the lady behind the serving counter and choosing chicken over beef, relieved that he won’t have to deal with Jared by himself for the entire lunch hour. He takes his meal to the table and starts eating.

He manages to get through the entire meal without anyone saying a word to him, and he finally gives up on trying to look like an inviting, friendly sort of guy about halfway through and just sort of hunches over his food instead. As soon as he’s finished, he dumps his leftovers in the trash and walks back to his trailer to stoically sit out the rest of the  break in front of his laptop.

The same thing happens the next day, and Jensen’s never really liked sitting on the edges of conversation. He picks at his sausages and tries to go over his lines in his head.

On Thursday, Jensen decides to hell with being sociable, collects his lunch and follows Jared straight back to the trailers, where he sits, bored and alone, until he’s called to set. At least this way, he thinks, he can hold on to some remnant of his pride.

On Friday when Jensen goes to collect his lunch, he sees Jared eating in the middle of the sitting area, laughing and smiling and joking amongst the tech guys and runners and extras. As if he was just waiting for Jensen to throw in the towel. Jensen goes back to his trailer and manages to swallow half a mouthful of noodles before angrily throwing the rest of the tub in the trash.

He’s beginning to think that Jared’s avoiding him, which is impressive considering the amount of time they have to spend filming together - leaving his trailer for makeup and costume before Jensen’s even arrived, and either speeding off directly after Andrew calls a break or hanging around chatting to crew members that Jensen doesn’t know long after - and it’s fucking frustrating because it should damn well be  _Jensen_ avoiding  _Jared_ , not the other way around. He’s not entirely sure what he’s done to curb Jared’s natural (and generally frustrating) friendliness, but it’s reaching the stage where he’s just about had enough of the damn cold shoulder he’s been receiving.

If it was anyone but Jared, Jensen tells himself, it would be beginning to kind of hurt.

~

At the end of a really fucking awful week, Jensen’s crossing the parking lot the production company’s hired out for the duration of the filming, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, and he’s got his Mustang firmly in his sights when he hears his name called from behind him. He turns around, an eyebrow raised, and tries not to frown as he waits for Jared to catch up with him.

“Hey, Jensen,” Jared says, a little out of breath as if he’s been hurrying, coming to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” Jensen returns, short and unfriendly. “Haven’t seen much of you lately.” It’s more accusation than it is greeting.

Jared looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs. “I wasn’t too sure that you wanted to see me,” he says, plainly. His steady gaze is unnerving - almost daring Jensen to contradict him, for Christ’s sake, as if it was  _Jared_ who had the right to be on the offensive - and Jensen looks away, rubbing the stiffness out of the back of his neck with his hand, unsure what to say that isn’t  _I’m sorry_ (because he really definitely isn’t)or anything as desperately pathetic as  _please hang around with me_.

“I don’t know anyone else here,” he starts, then grimaces because that’s maybe just a little bit too blunt. “It’s not like I don’t want to see you at  _all_ , Jared, and really -”

“Whatever, Jensen. I understand,” Jared says, cutting him off with a wave of his hand and a smile that looks strained, and Jensen fiercely wishes that Jared was the type just to call him  _asshole_ and be done because he’s fed up with always feeling like the bad guy.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment.

“So,” Jensen says. “What did you -?”

“Oh,” Jared says, bright and forced. “You are planning on coming out tonight with the crew, right?” There’s a hint of determination in the way he says it, as if it isn’t really a question at all.

Jensen thinks about the beer in his fridge and Chinese take-out and his bed. “I dunno,” he says, truthfully. “I was thinking I might call it an early one, you know?”

Jared shrugs broad shoulders and doesn’t back down. “If you want to get to know the crew, Jen, you’ve got to put in the effort. That’s all I’m saying.” He looks pointedly at Jensen with no trace of a smile. “Otherwise I’ll always be the only one you know around here.”

He turns and starts walking back, and Jensen stands in the middle of the lot and knows there’s no way he’s getting out of this one.

“Fine,” he yells across the distance at Jared’s back, and internally mourns his crispy duck pancakes. “Fine. What time?”

Jared turns, and Jensen can see his triumphant grin even from where he’s standing. “Eight,” comes the shouted reply, and Jensen curses softly and turns around to finish the trudge to his car. He’s not sure he’s even going to have the chance to shower. Fucking perfect.

~

The place is actually kind of okay, Jensen thinks grudgingly, as he stands in the doorway. Lots of brick, with lighting that’s easy on tired eyes, air you can actually breathe, and a floor which isn’t too sticky, even if it has only just gone nine o’clock. He walks up to the bar and orders a beer, taking a long pull from the bottle as he turns around and tries to recognise someone. The problem, he thinks sourly after a moment, is that he can recognise half a dozen people in easy range no problem; he just doesn’t  _know_  any of them. And he’s fairly certain that he’d rather burn in hell than walk up to someone and introduce himself as the damn _co-star_.

“Hey, Jensen Ackles, right?” someone asks, and Jensen nods at the guy with a smile, straightening up and taking the proffered hand. “I’m Bob,” the guy says, brushing his shaggy hair out of his face. “Bob from set management. Let me buy you a drink. Another Bud do you fine?”

Jensen’s on the verge of protesting, but another cold bottle is already open and waiting for him on the bar, so he dips his drink at Bob in thanks and downs the half full bottle in his hand, exchanging it for the new one before the fizz is entirely out of the back of his throat.

“Come on,” Bob says, and drapes a friendly arm over Jensen’s shoulders. “I’ve got a couple of guys from set who really wanna meet you. And Joan from finance is here. And man, I swear when she heard you were gonna be on the movie she actually had to take a bathroom break to calm down. So I don’t know whether you wanna meet her or not really, ‘cause last time I went into her office she had you as her screensaver and I can see how that could be kinda weird, but she’s a great old girl, sweet as anything, and I reckon it might just about make her year if you said hi. Like, for five minutes or something. Oh, and look, there’s Jon and Claire from lighting - hey, you guys, how’s it going? You met my pal, Jensen, here yet? Jensen Ackles, yeah. Seriously, Jensen, man, so many people wanna meet you.”

So Jensen meets Jon and Claire and Lillian and Charlie and George and Buddy and the John with an H and Denise and Big Dave and Naomi and Henry and Samantha and so many other people that names just become a giant blur in his head, and Jensen smiles and talks more than he feels like he’s done for a whole damn year.  Every other person he meets wants to buy him a drink and Jensen’s never been one to turn down proffered alcohol before. Before he knows it, he’s actually having a pretty great time, and Bob’s long gone to chat with two guys who Jensen  _thinks_  are George and Buddy in one corner, but there’s always someone else more than happy to introduce him to other crew members. He even chats with Andrew for a bit and almost asks him whether he’s drinking Long Island Iced Tea before thinking better of it and excuses himself for a well-earned bathroom break.

He washes his hands and splashes water on his face, feeling hot and like he’s drunk just a little bit too much, and resolves himself to stick to soda water for the rest of the night as he’s still planning on driving home. He pushes through the swing door and back out into the main area, unable to miss quite how warm and muggy and smelling like booze it’s become, only narrowly avoiding a collision with two drunk and giggling thirty-somethings.

With the sudden need for a breath of fresh air, he weaves through the press of people, smiling and gesturing apologetically to the exit as his name is called and hands clap him warmly on the back. He pushes out of the doors with something of a sigh of relief and leans back against the wall, eyes shut, just breathing in the night air.

“Hey, Jensen.”

Jensen recognises the voice and doesn’t open his eyes, just breathes the cool air, in and out.

“Jared,” he says, after a long moment. “What are you doing out here?”

There’s the crunch of grit beneath boots and when Jared speaks he’s closer than he was before. “Same thing as you, I reckon. It got a little hot in there.”

“Yep,” Jensen says, and cracks open an eye. Jared’s next to him in jeans and a black shirt, hair just a little dark about the temples with sweat, leaning back against the wall and staring up at the sky. “I didn’t see you in there.”

“I saw you.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. He scuffs the heel of his boot back against the wall, palms his cell through his jeans to make sure he’s still got it, checks his watch: 11:13. He’s already out later than he’d thought he’d be, and the night is still early.

He pushes away from the wall and turns back to the entrance. “I’m gonna go back in.”

Behind him, Jared’s silent for a moment, then he says, “Hey, Jensen. What'd you say to some tequila?”

Jensen hesitates but doesn’t turn around.

“I can’t,” he says, finally. “I’m driving back.”

“I’m not. You can get a lift with me.”

“I’m not just going to leave my car here.”

“Why not? You used to. Well, not  _here_  here, but you know.”

Jensen turns back and finds Jared staring at him. “In Vancouver, you mean?” he asks, unkindly.

Jared doesn’t look away. “Yes,” he says, just as deliberate, eyebrow raised. “In Vancouver.”

Jensen smiles tightly and turns away, shaking his head. “Fine,” he says over his shoulder. “But you never could hold your drink, Padalecki. It’s your funeral.”

~

The next morning, Jensen’s mouth tastes like sand and he gropes groggily in the dark for the bottlr of water he keeps on his bedside table, coming up empty handed. Hating life, he presses his head back into his pillow and tries to not think about how thirsty he is. It sort of works and he dozes, on and off. The next time he wakes, he reaches for his water without even thinking about it, and this time his fingers close around a cold, condensation-slippery tumbler. He smiles in triumph, thinks he might not be sober yet, and drinks and drinks and drinks. Then he falls back into blessed unconsciousness.

When he wakes up fully, it’s light and he squints half-blinded against the sun pouring in through the window, thinking he must have slept a damn sight longer than he’d meant to if his west-facing bedroom was getting direct sunlight. Then he frowns, rubs the grit of sleep out of his eyes, actually  _looks_  at the bed he’s lying in and the room he’s staying in, and swears. Violently.

Because the room is huge, gorgeous, and those are Jared’s  _parents_ smiling at him from the bedside table, and that’s the shirt Jared was wearing last night draped over a side chair, and even the fucking  _silk_ bed sheets smell like Jared and Jared’s expensive aftershave. Jensen’s got  _shit shit shit_ running on a loop in his brain, and when he pushes back the covers and finds himself in only his shorts, even that stutters to a halt for one god awful moment, climbing up that all important notch to  _fuck fuck fuck_.

He finds his jeans and t-shirt folded neatly on the table by the window. He pulls them on hurriedly, never happier to have the smell of stale smoke and spilt alcohol back close to his skin. He can’t find his socks and he assumes his boots must be by the front door, and he fumbles with his unresponsive mind, trying to  _remember_. He feels like he’s going to be sick, and he crosses over to the bathroom, ignoring the shiny black bath big enough to be a hot tub, and hovers over the toilet, feeling miserable and wanting to retch and swearing to himself that he’ll never touch tequila again for as long as he lives.

He coughs, spits up a bit of bile but nothing substantial, and flushes the chain resignedly. Then he sits back on the corner of the bed, and thinks. He can remember meeting Jared outside the bar, he can remember downing shot after shot, a smirk on his lips, responding to the casual challenge in the way that Jared upends shot glass after shot glass on the table. There’s a girl with curly black hair hovering on the edges of his recollection, and he’s fairly certain he might have been embarrassingly grateful to Bob in the bathroom, but apart from that, his mind is an alcohol-saturated blank.  
  
_Fuck fuck fuck_ begins again, in earnest.

Steeling himself, he gets up, makes his way out of Jared’s bedroom and down the stairs, back into familiar territory. The kitchen door is shut, but it sounds like the TV is on, so he forcefully represses the ridiculous urge to just run out the front door without so much as a word and forces himself to grip the handle and turn.

“Hey, man,” Jared says, happily frying something on the stove. “You want some coffee?”

“Um,” Jensen says, bewildered by the normality of the situation. “Yeah, okay.”

Jared smiles at him, gestures to the table, and Jensen sits down hard. He stares distractedly at the wood grain, jerking upwards and jarring his knee loudly against the table, startled, when a steaming cup of coffee is placed in front of him. Jared doesn’t remark on it, just turns away, and Jensen wraps both his hands around the cup, welcoming the grounding burn.

“I’ve got eggs and bacon and hash browns,” Jared says, returning with two plates piled high with grease. “The toast is just coming.”

Jared sits across from him. Jensen smiles half-heartedly and stares down at his plate.

“Jared,” he says. “So, it’s -- I can’t remember much of what happened last night.” He takes a deep breath. “Wanna fill me in?”

Jared’s already got his mouth full and he gestures one moment with his finger and chews, staring across at Jensen thoughtfully. Jensen presses his fingers so hard into his thighs beneath the table that it actually hurts, waiting silently.

“You don’t remember anything?” Jared asks, finally swallowing.

“I don’t remember getting here,” Jensen elaborates.

“Oh right,” Jared says, pauses, then snorts with laughter. “It must have been fun waking up and realising, huh?”

“Shut up,” Jensen says, not amused in the slightest. He picks up his fork and plays with his food for a moment, trying to figure out how best to word what he wants to say. “I didn’t -- I didn’t, like,  _do_  anything, right?” He glances up and Jared’s frowning at him with confusion. “Last night, I mean?” he says, impatiently. “Here.”

Jared’s expression almost becomes soft as realisation dawns, and Jensen finds it really hard to keep looking at Jared as he puts down his cutlery and leans against the table.

“Truthfully, Jensen, I can’t remember everything that happened either because we both sure as hell drank a lot of that tequila. But I’m pretty sure you lasted the night with your virtue intact. As I remember, you were having some problems getting your jeans undone so I volunteered to help, and then you wouldn’t go to bed until you’d returned the favour.” He looks at Jensen, completely serious. “But, no, apart from that, nothing. We just slept.”

Jensen holds his gaze for a moment, then nods, sort of satisfied, and makes a start on his breakfast.

Jared won’t hear about him catching a cab to get his car, so Jensen gets a lift back to the bar in one of the Ferraris. Back home finally, he strips and stands naked in front of his bathroom mirror, studying his skin for telltale marks. He finds nothing, and he certainly doesn’t  _feel_  like he had sex last night - even drunk, clumsy sex - but something about Jared’s expression when Jensen’d told him that he didn’t remember anything doesn’t sit quite right with him. Just sort of  _jars_ , and he’s not entirely sure why.

Taking two aspirin, Jensen crawls into his own bed and sleeps half the day away. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Fuck,” Jensen says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sorry.  _Fuck_.”

The  _cut_ comes after one of those irritated pauses that’s only recognisable to someone who’s had years of experience screwing around with film crews; not quite long enough for actual words, but more than enough time for a couple of audible sighs and the cameramen to exchange weary eye rolls. Jensen scrubs his hand over his face and grimaces at the dry, tight feel of powder, unable to find it in himself to blame them. Behind the bright lights focused on set, the sky’s been turning steadily darker for the past two and a half hours and Jensen was meant to be home forty-five minutes ago. He’d be feeling bitchy about it if it wasn’t for the fact that he knows that when Andrew finally wraps - and any time now would be just  _great_  - he gets to go straight to his trailer, change and get in his car without looking back. The crew, on the other hand, have to stick around to pack away and get ready for the following day’s shoot. And they’re getting paid less than he is, Jensen's pretty certain.

Jensen digs the heel of his palm into his eye and rubs at his contact lens, grimacing. There’s also the not inconsequential fact that for once the delay isn’t at all technical. Between them, he and Jared have wasted god knows how many minutes of film today, and every five minutes spent shooting is followed by ten minutes of Andrew patiently explaining exactly what it is they aren’t giving him. It’s frustrating as fuck, and the worst thing is that Jensen knows it’s entirely necessary.

He glances over at Jared, who’s got his head bowed, eyes shut, mouth tracing silently over his lines. A runner moves to his side and tentatively offers him a water bottle, all politeness and respect, and Jared shakes his hair out of his eyes, smiles in thanks and twists the cap off. He swallows greedily, once, twice, head tilted back, and Jensen watches his throat work, wondering what’s so special about today that neither of them can go two minutes without screwing up. Last week, he could have understood it. Last week - after what Chris has begun fondly referring to as their “slumber fucking party”, with just a little too much emphasis on the  _fucking_ , the asshole - it would have made sense if Jensen had had some problems looking Jared fully in the eye or had stuttered over his casual “Fuck you,” in scene five or, hell, just hadn’t turned up for work at all. But no, they had wrapped early, Andrew had been heard honest to god  _whistling_ , and Bob from set management had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Not just a pretty face, then, huh? Keep it up. My wife gets frisky when I’m back early,” with a grin.

Obviously, Jensen thinks, it’s all about fucking karma.

Jared lowers the bottle, does it back up, and cants his head at him.

“Dude, you’re staring,” he says, with a tired smile. “All you gotta do is ask.” He chucks the bottle across to him, and Jensen catches it one-handed.

He’s not actually thirsty, but his mouth is verging on dry, so he nods and mutters, “Yeah, thanks,” as he unscrews the lid. He drinks, his lips closed around the cool, damp plastic, thinking  _Jared’s mouth was on this_ , and he’s fairly certain the thought should warrant some sort of reaction, he’s just not sure what. When he’s done, he recaps it and passes it back. “Thanks,” he says again, and Jared’s staring at him in such a way that Jensen wonders whether he’s thinking about sharing goddamn cooties too. He licks his lips self-consciously and looks away.

Twenty minutes later, after an inspiring talk with Andrew about motivation and blocking, they start from where they left off. Not three minutes in, Jared bungles a line, looks like he’s going to cuss, then starts laughing, hard. After a moment, Jensen joins in because it’s just so damn ridiculous, and Jared’s got one of those laughs which just  _pulls_ , and Kim had one time threatened to send them to stand in different corners of the room until they had gotten themselves under control.

Andrew shakes his head, and says on a resigned sigh, “Right. Well, I guess that’s a wrap, then,” to a belated cheer from the crew.

Jensen’s belly is beginning to ache. He pulls his face into something resembling  _apologetic_ and  _serious_ and  _professional_  and chokes back the laughter as best he can. He can’t look at Jared, who’s trying to smother his own amusement by making breathy, snuffling noises into his arm, because he knows that if he does, it’ll just get worse. He’s a grown man, for Christ’s sake.

~

On their slow walk back to the trailers, Jared’s voice is still hoarse with laughter when he says, “Holy crap, that was bad.”

“You think?” Jensen says, rolling his eyes in the semi-gloom, his good humour all but gone. He’s been on set for a good ten hours and the bone-deep weariness is just beginning to catch up with him. There are fuzzy rainbows surrounding the halogen lights along the path and they’re making his eyes sting. “We’ll be lucky if they can use five minutes of that roll.”

“Yeah.” Jared quietens, and the only sound between them is the clomp of their boots on the boards. Then he says, “With good reason, though.”

“You’re an ass?”

Jared ignores him. “We haven’t practised that scene in weeks. A full run-through, I mean. Just you and me.”

Jensen runs a hand over the back of his head, tugging at the hair there and feeling uncomfortable. He doesn’t reply.

“So,” Jared says, without need of any prompting, “we should get back into practising. You know, like we were before we started shooting.” He hesitates for a moment, and his eyes shift sideways to consider Jensen from beneath the hair in his eyes. “We can do it at yours, if you want?”

Jensen’s pretty certain that he’d prefer not to have to spend his gradually dwindling free time with Jared  _as well_  as all their hours together on set, but he knows Jared is thinking about the last time Jensen was round his place and his mouth twists.

“Nah,” he says, after a moment, grudgingly. He’ll be damned if he lets Jared think that he’s at all bothered by the incident - because he most definitely isn’t. “Your house is better. We’ve got real room to practice, so.” He shrugs. If he manages to spare himself another day like today, so much the better.

They arrive at the trailers in a silence that's almost passable for companionable and Jared starts up the steps. “This weekend?” he asks, leaning a shoulder casually back against the door and looking down at Jensen. His face is strangely shadowed by the light on the trailer wall, just above his head.

“Why not?” Jensen drawls. “It’s not like I’ve got a life or anything.”

Jared grins at him. “Good. Say, ten o’ clock?”

Jensen turns away to his own trailer. “Slave driver,” he says, without looking back.

~

The kitchen is warm and bright, smelling of crushed garlic and bolognese sauce. The blinds aren’t drawn and outside the pool lights shimmer under a sky black with the lack of stars and moon. Jared says something and Jensen, not really listening, takes a moment to turn from the window and say, “Sorry. What?”

Jared grins. “I think she likes you.” He gestures with the spoon, and Jensen turns his gaze to meet the solemn eyes of Jared’s new dog sitting in front of him, staring up at him in rapt attention. He rolls his eyes, murmurs, “Stupid damn mutt,” beneath his breath and leans forward in his chair to scratch good-naturedly behind her ears.

Leaning back, he watches Jared make a mess out of getting a piece of pasta out of the pot to test, and smiles tightly to himself, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It feels weird, this. Sitting comfortably in the warmth of Jared’s kitchen, watching Jared cook dinner for them both from scratch, and not wanting to bolt. When Jared had first suggested he stay for food after their rehearsal, Jensen had already got an excuse half out before he’d realised that he didn’t actually want to go back to a cold, empty house on a Saturday night. So he’d snapped his mouth shut, nodded, and Jared - with the good grace not to look too surprised - had asked whether he was man enough for chilli.

“Your chilli?” Jensen had asked, doubtfully. “Dude, Stallone’s not man enough for that crap.” And Jared had punched him in the shoulder, told him to sit down and stop whining because his grandmother had eaten the stuff. Then had proceeded to make pasta as if Jensen wouldn’t notice.

“Grub’s up,” Jared announces over the clatter of plates, and Jensen levers himself up out of his chair, nudges the dog out of his way with his shin and goes to help. Grabbing both steaming plates Jared offers him, he puts them on the place mats on the table, then goes back for the bowl of cheese and the pepper grinder as Jared pours red wine into two glasses on the side.

“It looks good,” he says, as he sits.

“Damn straight,” Jared replies, placing the wine in front of him and settling down into his own chair.

They both get started and, hell, Jensen thinks, it  _is_ good: warm and rich and delicious. They eat in silence for a few minutes and Jensen can’t remember the last time he had proper home cooked food made for him. Probably, he thinks, back in early March when he visited his parents back in Texas for his sister’s birthday. And Jensen cooks - not as much as he probably should, but he certainly cooks - but for some reason it never tastes as good when he does it himself. He’s pretty sure that Chris  _can_  cook but just prefers pizza and grilled cheese.

“So,” Jared says, and wipes his mouth before taking a swallow of wine. “That was okay.”

“Yeah,” Jensen nods. “We can’t make it much better without Dennis here.” And he doesn’t think calling Dennis Hopper by his first name - just like the old man had said to when they had met for the first time last week - is ever going to get old. He smirks and focuses on twirling pasta around his fork. “Any thoughts about tomorrow?”

Jared shrugs. “Andrew said he wanted to focus on a couple of the smaller early scenes, then work up to scene twenty-five by the end of the week. Probably a good idea to start there.”

Jensen grimaces and Jared laughs softly, catching the expression.

“Hey, man. It’ll get better. The ones you don’t like always turn out awesome, remember? It was one of the reasons I had to stop working with you.”

Jensen glances up sharply and the humour is already fading from Jared’s face.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jensen mutters uncomfortably, as Jared says, “Among other things,” with a sour twist to his lips.

Jensen asks for the cheese. Jared passes it. Their fingers brush in the exchange.

Jensen takes his time sprinkling parmesan over his meal, not looking up because he knows that Jared’s fucking  _looking_ at him, and it would be cute if it were anyone else but them. He’s beginning to feel really damn tired about it all and fiercely wishes that spaghetti bolognese and wine after a productive day could be just  _normal_ between them. The fingers which Jared’s own had grazed against are curled tightly into a fist in his lap.

“Mikey called me,” Jared says, into the silence.

The news catches Jensen off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He says if we’re talking again, it’s been years too long since we saw him.”

Jensen smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “He might have a point.”

“That’s what I said. Apparently Tom and him are throwing a party in a couple of weeks. Not too showbiz or anything. Just some fun. He said we should go as each others dates.”

Jensen snorts, frustration uncurling within him. “Not the subtlest guy in world,” he says, a little heavily.

Jared grins, wide and bright. “Never really been Mikey’s style.”

_No_ , Jensen thinks, as he pushes the meat sauce about his plate. _It sure as hell hadn’t._

The last time he had spoken to Rosenbaum, the guy had called him the night before the worldwide release of Jared’s second film. Jensen had been set up belligerently before the TV, flicking through shows and aggressively chugging beer whenever he heard mention of Jared or Jared’s damn film. He wasn’t entirely sober when his cell had started vibrating in his pocket.

“Okay, okay,” Mike had said, not even giving Jensen the chance for his customary  _what?_  “Look, there’s no need to fucking beg me, alright? I’ll come collect you tomorrow and we can go to the movies together. I’ll even let you sit in the back row so you can get your rocks off over Jared’s ass without anyone watching. Hell,  _I_  won’t even watch if you’re that shy.”

Jensen had struggled for breath he was so angry.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he had bitten out, meaning it more than perhaps he had ever meant it. He had turned off his phone, turned off the TV, and sat in oppressive silence, digging his hands into the couch upholstery while Mike’s slightly mocking drawl continued to burn in his ears.

He had hated the man for a good week after that.

“They’re still hanging out then? Him and Tom?” Jensen asks, casting a glance up at Jared. “I thought after Smallville being cancelled -”

Jared shrugs. “Those two? It would take a hell of a lot more than the end of a show, man. When I met them at the Oscars, Tom’s wife told me that he had invited Mike before he had invited her. I don’t think she was joking either, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, and doesn’t think Jared means it like a criticism even if it feels like it.

Once the plates are cleared away, Jared offers him dessert. Jensen softens the refusal with a crack about his figure and says it’s about time he should be heading home. Jared sees him to the door and when Jensen checks his rear-view as he turns out the drive, he’s still there, leaning against the doorframe, edges picked out by the light flooding from the entrance hall.

Leaning back into the musty embrace of the car seat, Jensen flicks on the radio. He’s feeling weirdly relaxed and he hums along half-heartedly to a couple of songs he doesn’t know, then grins, turns the volume up and starts singing along when something familiar comes on.

When he thinks about it, he realises that, maybe, actually, he didn’t have _too bad_ a time.

~

Since the phone call, Mike’s only contacted him once more:

_If u think hes doing this for any1 else i will come knock some sense into u myself xoxo_

Jensen had stared at the text message for a long time. Then he had deleted it without responding.

~

Jared cusses, kicks the chair over backwards, and Jensen stands awkwardly, not entirely sure what to do.

Jared hadn’t been in the best of moods when he had arrived that morning. He had mumbled something about a headache when he’d opened the door to Jensen, and had rummaged around in the kitchen drawers until he’d found painkillers, swallowing them down dry and waving a dismissive hand in Jensen’s direction when he had asked if he was okay. Jensen had noted the two empty bottles of red wine on the draining board - when he’d left the night before, they’d only got down to the dregs of one - and figured it was mostly self-inflicted. He hadn’t bothered asking again.

“This isn’t fucking  _working_ ,” Jared says, angrily, scrubbing a hand back through his hair.

Jensen shrugs, feeling at a loss. He had never got used to Jared swearing because it just never happened much. “It’s just an off day. Maybe we should just take a break, then -”

“No,” Jared says, breaking him abruptly off. “It’s not just a damn  _off day_. It’s this scene. This damn scene. It’s not working.”

Jensen doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing much he can say. They’ve been through the twenty-fifth scene four and a half times so far today and the words are beginning to feel mechanical and strained, the movements false. If Jared wasn’t saying it, he’d be saying it instead. The scene felt _off_  and whatever they changed, however long they discussed beforehand, nothing seemed to make it any better. All they seemed to be doing at the moment was making it worse.

Jensen sighs. “I don’t know what you want me to say. We’ve tried everything -”

“No,” Jared bites out, his eyes flickering over to Jensen, then away. “We haven’t.”

Jensen’s expression hardens. “What?” he says, suspiciously.

Jared’s throat works silently for a moment and Jensen thinks that he might refuse to answer him. Then he turns to face him fully. Jared’s gaze is coolly professional as he stares at him, chin tilted upwards and hands loose at his side.

“Let me tie you up,” he says, firmly.

Jensen takes a moment to absorb the words. Then he snorts. “No way.”

Jared’s lips twist and he shrugs. “Then go home, Jensen. This is a fucking waste of time.”

“Hey,” Jensen says, taking a step forward and starting to feel vaguely pissed. “There is no way you’re pinning this just on me. Me being tied up won’t make any goddamn difference -”

“No?” Jared asks. “You think I don’t notice how many times you forget you’re not meant to be able to move, Jen? Because I do and you do and it breaks both of our concentrations. Then you’re just you and I’m just me and it’s no damn wonder that we can’t take this seriously.”

Jensen stares at him and Jared stares right back, a challenge in his stance, in his expression.

“Fine,” Jensen finally grits out. “Fine. Whatever.”

Jared’s still looking at him, but after a long silence, he nods slowly. “I’ll go get the rope,” he says, his voice softer than it’s been all day. “Stay here.”

As if he expects him to bolt as soon as he’s out the door. Jensen watches him go, feeling a little bit resentful, then walks over and rights the chair that Jared had kicked over, positioning it back in the centre of the room. He sits and waits, feeling antsy and uncomfortable as he makes himself slouch down, as if being tied up by Jared Padalecki isn’t that big a deal. As if he really doesn’t care at all, thank you very much.

He wonders bitterly whether Jared had bought the rope specially.

When Jared reappears in the doorway, Jensen forces a smile and says, “Let’s get this over with then, shall we?”

“You’re going to have to sit up,” Jared says in way of reply, critically eyeing him as he walks towards the chair, rope tucked into a bundle under his arm. Jensen rolls his eyes, and does as he’s told, placing his back firmly against the upright. “Good,” Jared says, crouched down behind him. Warm fingers drift across Jensen's bare forearm on his left side. “Hands.”

Jensen doesn’t allow himself to hesitate, doesn’t allow himself to think. Instead, he wraps his arms around the back of the chair, bringing his wrists together behind him without comment. One of Jared’s hands encloses around them, pressing his wrists tighter together and making Jensen wince slightly at the increased strain in his shoulders.

Jensen shivers as the cool, slick weave of the rope drapes over his skin, and Jared murmurs, “Hold still,” as he draws the rope tighter, wrapping it around and around Jensen's wrists and weaving it between the wooden struts of the upright, making movement impossible. “There,” he says, finally. His fingers trace lightly over Jensen’s trapped flesh, lingering over sensitive skin. “Not uncomfortable?” he asks. “Not too tight?”

Jensen shifts slightly, testing the knots and finding them holding fast. His hands are gently throbbing with his heartbeat, the backrest is uncomfortably hard, digging into his arms where his shoulders are forced back, but the position could be a lot worse. “It’s fine,” he says, curt.

Jared stands up and moves back around the chair, crouching down in front of Jensen. “Legs,” he says, and Jensen grits his teeth and spreads his thighs, positioning his feet so that his heels are on the outside of the chair legs. He wants to say that this isn’t necessary, but doesn’t; just watches stiffly as Jared deftly wraps the rope around his ankles and calves, pulling tight enough to rub denim roughly against his skin, but not to really hurt. Jared flashes him a smile when done, standing up with a nod and an “all done”.

Jensen surreptitiously tests the hold, finding it strong. It doesn’t make him feel particularly happy.

“Jared,” he says, and his voice sounds vaguely gravelly in his own ears. He waits for Jared to look at him. “I don’t care where we are through the scene, or what we’re doing, but if I say I want untying, then you untie me. Got it?”

Thinking about it, maybe he should have made this point clear before he had allowed Jared to tie him up, because now Jared’s there and he’s here, and there’s so much between them, so much that Jensen owes Jared and Jared owes Jensen, and wouldn’t this be the perfect time to collect? When Jensen’s fucking  _helpless_ and Jared’s got all the control and -

The look Jared gives him is pure exasperation. “Obviously, Jensen,” he says. “Shall we get started?”

Jensen sets his jaw. He automatically goes to shrug, and winces at the aborted jerk in his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, voice tight. “Let’s see if this works any better.”

Jared nods, then moves around behind him, out of his eyesight, and even if Jensen wanted to he couldn’t turn to follow his movements. He sits silently for a moment, gathering himself. Slowly, he tenses against the ropes, and thinks:  _dark_ ,  _cold_ ,  _basement_ ,  _going to die_.

“You’re an asshole,” he grits out, furious. A pause and he tugs against the ropes, and maybe Jared was right. Maybe this  _was_  all he needed, because when he says, “You’re not going to get away with this, you hear?” the panic is already setting in, lying heavy and unpleasant in his gut. “Let me - Tom, you damn coward, let me _go_.”

“You asked for this, Dave,” Jared says, calm and even, and Jensen wants to smash Tom’s face in, the arrogant dickhead, because  _the fuck_ did he ask for this. This is Tom’s fault. Tom dragged him into this. Why the hell should he -

“You can’t be serious about doing this,” and he’s still so _angry_. He struggles hard against the rope, gratified by the burn wrapped around his wrists because it shows that he’s doing  _something_ , twisting into it, trying to get away. But the ropes don’t budge, and his chest is heaving by the time he goes limp, knowing it’s hopeless.

“They’ll kill me, Tom,” he says, quieter. He turns his head in the direction he thinks Jared is behind him, tries desperately to catch sight of him. “You know they will. They find me like this and they’ll put a gun to my head and shoot me. Hell. They’ll - they’ll shoot my brains all over the fucking wall.” His throat burns, and he doesn’t have to fake the unhappiness in his voice when he says, “Oh crap.”

He waits. He knows to expect Jared by now - knows the exact moment when he should brush past him, because they’ve done this scene too many times today already - only Jared doesn’t come. The moment drags by, and Jensen turns his head from side to side, trying to find him. His blood is pounding in his ears and his hands are beginning to damn well  _hurt_. Jensen knows he’s getting into dangerous territory when he can’t distinguish Dave’s panic from his own.

When Jared’s fingers trail along the nape of his neck, he jerks so hard he almost dislocates something.

“ _Jesus_ -”

“It has to be this way,” Jared says softly, ignoring his slip completely. For a moment, his hand closes around the back of Jensen’s neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing into the soft hollow behind his ear. And Jared’s always maintained that Tom needs to touch Dave at this point in the scene, needs to remind himself and the audience that he actually gives a damn, but _hell_ , Jensen thinks, there’s touching and then there’s being _fucking intimate_.

Just as he’s ready to break character and tell Jared to back the hell up, Jared gently squeezes his neck and then the warmth of his hand is gone. Jensen twists his head around and can see Jared’s legs, Jared’s sneakers, and he’s standing so close to him that Jensen thinks he could rest his head back on his stomach if he wanted to. It’s unnerving because Jared is standing so silently, so still, just  _watching_ him from behind, and Jensen can’t do a thing about it. He’s hypersensitive to the rub of the ropes against his skin, to his own shallow breathing, the steadily quickening thud of his heart.

“It doesn’t,” he says, quieter than he means to. “It really, really doesn’t.”

It sounds more like Dave's begging Tom than it ever has before.

There’s a soft, breathy noise from behind him, and then Jared moves, hand brushing against the uncomfortable jut of his elbow as he steps around the chair. He doesn’t stop at his side and crouch, though, like normal. Instead, he comes to a halt directly in front of Jensen, legs planted firmly and hands calmly at his sides, solid and towering over the chair. Jensen swallows tightly before looking up to meet his gaze, because they’ve never done it like this before and that put him on edge.

Jared’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes trace over Jensen’s features in a way which makes his blood pound harder, heat spreading through his body. He tries to shift but the ropes are wound as tight as ever about his wrists and legs, and he doesn’t perversely know whether to be grateful for that, or not.

“Yes, it does,” Jared says, and Jensen’s mind stumbles, clumsily trying to recall the scene. “It’s the only way I can catch these guys.”

He takes a step closer, so he’s standing between Jensen’s spread legs, and then bends forward, placing both of his palms on the tops of Jensen’s thighs. His hands are hot and broad, and Jensen can’t breath. Jared’s face is so close to his that when he quietly says, “I’m sorry,” face broken open and eyes uncertain, Jensen can feel his breath on his skin.

Then Jared touches his dry lips softly to Jensen’s. His fingers curl into Jensen’s thighs and when Jensen doesn’t jerk immediately backwards from the hesitant contact, Jared makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat and leans further forward, a hand coming up to cradle Jensen’s face, carefully pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

When he finally draws back, slightly breathless, eyes cautiously scanning Jensen’s face for reaction, Jensen meets his gaze.

Steadily, he says, “I can’t do this again.”

Jared freezes.

Jensen presses his lips tightly together, seeking to numb the swollen, tingling flesh. “Untie me, please,” he says, and this time his voice wavers just a little.

Jared stays where he is for a long moment, one hand on Jensen’s thigh, one still on his face, then he takes a long breath and straightens stiffly, resolutely not looking at him. Without a word, he moves to Jensen’s back and starts untying the knots with sharp, jerky movements that jar hands already uncomfortable with pins and needles. When the rope finally falls away, Jensen draws his hands back around to his front, cradling them to his chest as he tries to rub normal feeling back into them.

Jared leaves the room without looking back at him.

Numbly, Jensen bends down and starts picking at the knots around his calves. It takes longer than it rightly should do, and before he’s finished his hands are clumsy with uncontrollable shakes. Finally done, he sits back and stares blankly at his knees for a long moment. Then he sets his jaw, scrubs the back of his hand over his lips, and gets up.

He lets himself out because Jared is nowhere to be seen. 


	7. Chapter 7

Jensen can’t sleep. There’s a bottle of JD downstairs on top of the fridge, he knows, beckoning him with oblivion, but the illuminated dial of his alarm clock tells him it’s late enough on a Sunday night that he’d still be very much drunk when he arrived on set in the morning and Jensen’s always liked to think of himself as something of a professional.

A professional that screwed around with his co-star. _Yeah, right._

He shifts, rolls onto his belly and buries his hands into the coolness beneath his pillows. Pressing his face into the hot indent left by the back of his head, he shuts his eyes and stays like that until the desire to breathe deeply is too much. He turns his pillow, flips back over and stares at the ceiling, unhappiness gnawing at his gut.

Beside him, his clock steadily flicks through from 02:42 to 03:09.

With the sound of frustration rough in his throat, he shoves his hand into his shorts and grips himself hard enough to hurt. He jerks his fingers unrelenting, up down, up down, vision unfocused and blurred, mouth pressed into the tight, resigned line of a man ready to face the firing squad. This has nothing to do with pleasure, after all.

He doesn’t think of Jared. Jared’s warm hand on his thigh. Jared’s lips on his. Jared’s expression when he had told him no. Doesn’t think of him at all. Jensen’s well practiced at it.

It doesn’t take long.

The exercise throws him back a bit. It’s been well over a year since he lost control quite so spectacularly, biting down hard on his fingers as his other hand pulled his orgasm out of him, definitely  _not_ thinking about Jared.

There had been a lot of excitement when it had been announced there was going to be a Jared Padalecki autobiography coming out. Jensen had rolled his eyes at the idea, snorted at the title -  _Just Me_ , or some stupid crap like it - and had told Chris that if Jared talked shit about him then he was going to knock his teeth out, just see if anyone could stop him. Chris had said talking to his lawyer might be a more sensible move, dead serious and worried looking, and it had taken Jensen a couple of beats to realise what he wasn’t saying.

“He wouldn’t,” he had said, feeling kind of sick and light headed.

“Maybe not,” Chris had replied, shrugging.

After swearing to himself at length and some careful deliberation, Jensen didn’t talk to his lawyer. He did, however, pre-order the book on Amazon, and watched queasily as newsreaders sat behind their desks and excitedly reported that the buzz was the new Padalecki book held some particularly juicy, previously unknown facts about the star, although sources weren’t saying exactly what.

The day of the release, Jensen had been woken at nine thirty by his phone ringing - and if that wasn’t a bad sign, he didn’t know what was. Ignoring the shrill tone and not even checking caller ID, he had sat staring at the kitchen table, waiting numbly for the delivery.

By the time the doorbell rang and he had got up to sign for it, his phone had rung a grand total of seven times. Ripping the packaging off, Jared’s smiling face had flirted up at him from the front cover, and he had growled, aggressively bent back the spine and begun scanning any chapters related to  _Supernatural_  for his name.

An hour later, his head spinning, he had stopped. There had been nothing. Jared had talked about him at length, of course, because you simply couldn’t get away with leaving out the co-star of the show that had made you famous. Especially if relations with said co-star had ended badly. But it had all been  _I am very grateful to_  or  _Jensen’s a great guy_ or  _I feel honoured to have worked with_  or  _I hope to make it up to him some day_.

Nothing.

He had made himself some coffee and finally looked at his phone. Missed calls from Chris and one from his sister. A couple of texts from Chris. The first:  _Answer ur fone dumbfuck_. The second:  _Turn on ur tv_.

Jensen had shrugged, drank some more of his coffee, and flicked the remote. Sitting on his couch, he had run through the channels until Jared’s name caught his attention on a news program.

“…is bisexual,” the newsreader was saying, her heavily made-up eyes round with badly hidden surprise, as if she couldn‘t believe the words she was reading. “In his autobiography, just released today, Mr Padalecki bared all. In a pre-recorded interview - the only one he has said he will do - the star elaborates on his reasoning for coming out in such a spectacular fashion.”

The picture had cut to Jared sitting on a plush couch, the lighting artfully dim. “Well,” he said, with a wry grin. “There’ll be some people out there who’ll think it’s a publicity stunt, all about money, you know? Like ‘buy my book because I’m bisexual’, or something equally as awesome.” He had laughed, mouth wide and red. “But, seriously? I’m kind of a private guy. I love my fans to bits, but I don’t want them to know everything there is to know about me. That wouldn’t be cool. And they’re great because they respect that. But this? Well, sexuality is kind of a big deal, and I thought they deserved my honesty about it. It’s taken me a long time to realise exactly how I feel, and it’s been difficult -” he had paused, and glanced at the camera, his eyes serious “- but if I can help anyone else feel more comfortable about who they are, then I want to do that. You shouldn’t have to hide yourself.”

The picture had flashed back to the newsreader, and she had smiled soppily. “A great guy, hey, Gary?”

Her partner smiled, collecting his papers in front of him. “You’ve got that right, Karen. Takes a lot of guts.” He turned to face the camera. “Now, onto world news and the riots in…”

Beside him, Jensen’s phone had vibrated, and he had fumbled for it, eyes still fixed on the television screen. Tearing himself away, he had finally looked down at it, and hadn’t been entirely surprised by who the sender was.

_I_ _f u think hes doing this for any1 else i will come knock some sense into u myself xoxo_

Jensen had stared at the message for a long time, feeling like something was cramping deep within his chest. Then he had set his jaw, deleted it, pushed the flannel material of his robe aside and wrapped his hand around his rock-hard dick. It had taken four pulls, his other hand clawed into the upholstery, and when he had come he hadn’t been able to completely bite back the injured noise welling up from somewhere deep inside of him.

_Some things never fucking change_ , Jensen thinks, as he jerkily strips off his damp shorts with a grimace of distaste and flings them in the vague direction of the dirty laundry piled haphazardly in one corner of his room. Like the fact that his brain and his damn libido obviously aren’t on speaking terms. His cock aches with the memory of his too tight fingers and he’s vindictively glad about it. Pulling the covers up to his ears, he shuts his eyes, waits for his heartbeat to slow and tries not to hate himself too much.

One step forward, two steps back. He wishes he’d never thought it might be okay to see Jared again.

~

On Monday, he hears from the makeup girls that Jared’s called in sick.

He doesn’t pretend to be particularly aggrieved about it. There aren’t many people in the crew - hell, the  _country_  - who don’t have suspicions about how it stands between him and Jared, and he’s not going to pretend for politeness’ sake. It surprises him, though; if he’s brutally honest, he knows it would worry him too, just a little bit, if he wasn’t so damn angry with Jared - hell, if he actually  _liked_  Jared all that much - because Jared’s the type to accidentally shoot himself in the foot and limp in the next day, all smiles and aspirin and  _I’m okay_.

He refuses to think about it further - it isn’t his problem after all - and gets on with being thankful for the unexpected reprieve instead. He doesn’t even mind that he spends the day being shuttled from set to set, wardrobe to makeup, camera to camera, doing close-ups and retakes and all the insanely slow, boring crap that normally makes him want to poke his eyes out for the chance of a little excitement at the ER. So long as Jared isn’t around, Jensen’s just peachy.

When Andrew calls lunch and gestures him over, face sombre, to ask him whether he knows what’s up with Jared, Jensen shrugs half-heartedly and says he has no idea without feeling even a little bit guilty. If Jared wants to, he can explain himself later. Jensen will be damned if he makes any excuses for him.

“You were with him yesterday,” Andrew points out.

Jensen hesitates, unable to stop his mind flinching away from the feelings dredged up by the merest thought of Sunday, and knows Andrew catches it by the way his eyes narrow in something resembling suspicion. Jensen’s always thought directors were perceptive people - knows from experience that the bastards are really damn difficult to lie to because of it. He reckons it’s probably because they make a living out of watching people, interpreting their expressions, trying to get that perfect shot for the story.

“Yeah, well,” he says, uneasily. “He wasn’t ill then.”

Andrew regards him silently for a long moment, then  _hmphs_ in a way that makes it sound like he wouldn’t put poisoning past Jensen, and turns away.

“Go eat something,” he says, shortly. “I’ll need you back here as soon as possible. We’ll be doing lighting shots 'til six.”

Jensen groans and turns to trudge in the direction of the catering tent. He has the distinct impression he’s being punished and if that‘s not un-fucking-fair he doesn’t know what is. It’s not like Jared’s the one who could file for sexual harassment, for Christ’s sake.

~

Jared’s staring at him. Jensen shifts and tries to concentrate on what Jeremy’s saying about script alterations -  _we’ll move this bit here and that bit there, cutting this and adding this because Andrew doesn’t like it and I think he’s right, not the right pace, you see_ \- but it isn’t easy. He can see Jared on the periphery of his vision, and it’s not like Jared’s even  _pretending_ to be listening to what Jeremy’s saying, sitting slouched back, mouth a grim line, attention entirely fixed on Jensen. It’s damned unnerving is what it is, and Jensen turns his head to scowl pointedly at him, before facing front again and nodding in vague agreement at the noises the scriptwriter’s making at them.

So far that morning, he and Jared haven’t said anything more meaningful to each other than an awkward “Hey,” and Jensen can’t see it getting any easier with the onset of the afternoon. He doesn’t know what Jared did with himself yesterday, but it doesn’t appear to have done much good. He’s acting about as belligerent as Jensen’s ever seen him, almost getting into a full blown argument with one of the makeup crew because she had said he looked tense. Truth be told, avoiding the subject of Sunday seems like an absolutely awesome idea to Jensen. He’s become quite adept at sticking his head in the sand when it suits him.

“So, that’s about it,” Jeremy says, beaming at them, and Jensen feels more than a little bit guilty because he knows he’s going to have to ask the guy for a repeat some time in the near future. He nods at him, slips off his chair and claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he says. “I’ll try to remember that. Mind like a damn sieve.” He grins apologetically and turns to head out of the mobile unit.

“Jensen, wait a moment,” Jared says suddenly, from behind him, and Jensen jerks to a halt, hand on the door handle.

“Sorry,” he says, calmly - despite his heart jumping in his throat. “All the coffee’s just caught up with me. Gotta go take a leak.” And he shuts the door behind him, taking huge strides across the open space between admin and the prop department, expecting to hear the thump of hurrying footsteps and a hand on his arm any moment. He ducks behind the catering tent and weaves in a roundabout way between the trailers until he reaches his own. Shutting the door behind him with an exhale of relief, he promptly collapses down on the couch.

He feels like an idiot, but anything seems preferable to being alone with Jared at the moment.

~

Wednesday is much of the same. If anything, Jared pulls even more into himself, distracted by everything which isn’t Jensen’s damn face. Jensen’s becoming downright twitchy around him, as aware of their proximity as he had been at the very beginning of rehearsing, and he takes care to remain out of arm’s reach because if Jared tries to touch him again, Jensen doesn’t know quite what his reaction will be. It would be better for the both of them, he’s sure, if they never find out.

As if things aren’t already bad enough, Jared’s mood seems to have a direct effect on most of the crew as well. Andrew hasn’t stopped scowling at Jensen since Monday, and what had once been suggestions are now snapped orders. The mild-mannered woman in charge of set management had lost her temper over Andrew's attitude and said in tones loud enough to carry that she  _may_ have worked with him for twenty years, but by god that didn’t mean she couldn’t get work elsewhere. Ever since, the set hands working for her have been going about their duties with little enthusiasm, occasionally smiling at Jensen but not joking or talking like usual. At lunch, the catering tent is quieter than Jensen’s ever seen it, and what talk there is is mere speculation on Jared’s funk. When the man in question appears, collects only one portion of food and walks back to his trailer without a word to anyone, Jensen sees not just a few unimpressed looks angled after his departing back. It makes him feel strange.

The next day, a man comes into the make-up trailer whilst Jensen’s having his hair done.

“Hi,” he says, and holds out a length of tough-looking rope. “I’m going to be tying you up today. Just wanted to come by and explain to you beforehand what we’ll be doing to make you as comfortable as possible. I’m Jacob, by the way.”

Jensen nods in greeting, and the woman behind him flicks his ear with the comb she’s brandishing.

“Stop moving,” she says, no nonsense. Jensen rolls his eyes at Jacob and gets a grin for his troubles.

“The rope,” Jacob continues. “It looks tough but it’s softer than normal. Have a feel. There’s a bit of give too, as it’s slightly elasticised.” He demonstrates, wrapping it twice around both wrists and pulling. “You’re going to be in no danger of getting hurt.”

“Good to know,” Jensen says, as the trailer door bangs open and Jared enters, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets and cap down low over his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, to no one in particular, and slouches down in the other chair. There’s a flurry of movement as the correct make-up is brought out and one girl tentatively removes Jared's hat and starts brushing his hair out while another wields the powder. Jared casually eyes Jacob up and down, then turns away and smoothes his hands down his jeans.

“Who are you?” he asks, and it’s not exactly rude, but it’s not exactly polite either.

“I’m Jacob,” Jacob says. “I’m going to be tying your buddy here up.”

Jared goes very still for a moment. “Right,” he says, and is silent.

Jensen slides him a worried look and drums his fingers nervously against the arm of his chair whilst he waits for his hair to finally be pronounced done.

The damn problem with retrospection, he thinks bitterly, is that it goes out of its way to highlight just how much of a fucking idiot you can be. Because calling passing out in the same bed as Jared awkward? Was like calling Jensen’s house the Taj Mahal.  _Awkward_ , Jensen knows now, is being groped against his will while accidentally participating in a bit of friendly bondage and then having to re-enact the scene in front of a whole film crew.

~

The mock up basement is brightly lit but cold, and the ropes around his wrists itch. Jensen shifts in his chair and tries not to look too impatient. He’s never wanted a scene so badly over with in his life. As it is, he can see Jared standing a few feet away, looking uncomfortable and more uncertain than Jensen’s ever seen him in a professional environment, both seemingly unable to look at Jensen or to look away. Adrenaline is jittering through Jensen’s limbs and his heart beat is slow and thick in his mouth. He wonders if there is any way in which this can play out alright.

“Right,” Andrew says, all business. “Let’s get the lighting right this time, guys.”

Slowly, the lights dim, turning the space subterranean and creepily unpleasant. _More intimate_ , Jensen thinks, and clenches his fingers tightly behind his back.

“That‘s fine,” Andrew says. “Good. Camera positions three and four, remember, Jared. Everyone ready?” There aren’t any objections. “Alright. Three, two, one.”

Someone yells  _action_ and Jensen shuts his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they’re blazing.

“You’re an asshole,” he says, dredging up his anger and spitting it over his shoulder where he knows Jared is standing. “You’re not going to get away this, do you hear? You’re not - you -- You damn coward, Tom. You let me go.”

He can barely hear Jared moving over the beat reverberating through his head, but he is, Jensen knows - getting ready to step forward, to do his part. Jensen’s palms are slick with sweat, and he’s clinging more desperately than he’d like to believe to the idea that the sooner they get on with it, the sooner it’s over.

“You asked for -” he hears Jared say, and Jensen unintentionally jerks, almost putting his teeth through his lip.

There’s a long, dragging pause, a polite murmured question from behind him, and then Jared exclaiming, loud and abrupt, “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

Jensen twists his neck around and watches Jared walk stiffly off the set, an aide standing dumbfounded where he’d once been, staring after the star's rapidly departing figure.

Jensen breathes in deeply and twists back around to come face to chest with Andrew.

“One of you,” Andrew enunciates clearly, looking grimly down at him, “is going to tell me what the _hell_ is going on.”

Jensen meets his eyes for a moment, then looks away. “Get me out of this,” he mutters after a moment, tugging half-heartedly at his bindings.

~

Andrew comes to see Jensen in his trailer later. Raps on the door and lets himself in without waiting to be invited. Jensen looks up from the couch where’s he’s going over the revised words Jeremy had emailed to him and raises an enquiring eyebrow at the director.

“I talked to Jared,” Andrew says, no-nonsense. “He says you may have a problem with the scene.”

Jensen puts down the printout and leans back. “That’s rich coming from him. He’s the one who ran out on filming, not me. Or I guess maybe because I was tied down I couldn’t -”

Andrew rubs tiredly at his temples and interrupts him impatiently. “You as in  _both of you_ , Jensen. He said you’d had some problems during rehearsal and that you’d be fine with a little more time.”

Jensen looks at him hard and refuses to blush. Problems during rehearsals? Yeah, you know, just with that one scene when he’s fucking  _tied up_. Christ, could Jared get any more obvious? Maybe next time he could just bring in some handcuffs with Jensen’s name emblazoned on them in baby pink and be done with it.

He fidgets uncomfortably and picks at his thumb nail. “Some more time might help,” he says, flat.

“Good,” Andrew says, and turns to go. “I’ll have to get in contact with Mark about the schedule change. He likes to be kept on top of things like this -”

_Mark_ , Jensen’s brain goes. _Mark_ the executive producer. _Mark_ the executive producer and his contract.

“Hang on,” he says, hurriedly, and Andrew pauses in the doorway. Jensen smiles broadly and gets up, hands spread. “It sounds like quite a lot of trouble, yeah?”

Andrew frowns, then shrugs. “I could do without the hassle, it’s true. It’ll cost a fair bit too, but if you both can’t do it then -”

“Then don’t worry about it,” Jensen says, his smile growing even wider. “I’ll sort it out. I’ll talk to Jared and everything will be fine. Believe me. It’ll be fine.”

Andrew looks at him sharply for a moment, then finally nods.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “You talk to Jared and try and get him to come around. But you’ve only got tonight because this project can’t afford to waste any more time if it ain't gonna happen.”

Jensen beams at him, nods, and waits for him to close the door behind him before allowing the expression to slide off his face.

~

Standing outside Jared’s house, Jensen reminds himself that he can do this. Hell, for half his pay check, Jensen can do anything. He’s not going to just take this lying down. Readjusting his collar and brushing a hand through his hair, he swallows hard and steps up onto the porch. He hesitates for a couple beats more, calls himself a pussy under his breath, and firmly presses the doorbell.

Inside, dogs start barking wildly and it takes a minute or so for the door to be finally wedged open by Jared’s foot, his hands and other foot actively involved in keeping the dogs back from rushing Jensen.

“Sorry,” Jared says, laughing slightly breathlessly, head down and dark bangs in his eyes, attention fixed on keeping the dogs from trying to worm their way past his limbs. “I’d normally shut them in the kitchen but I didn’t expect -” He looks up, and freezes. “Jensen.”

“Hi,” Jensen says, self-consciously, and runs his fingers through his hair again. They stand in awkward silence for a moment. “Can I - Can I talk to you?” Jensen prompts, finally.

“How did you get in?” Jared asks, looking pointedly at the closed gates and not budging from the doorway. “Hell,” he says, surveying the empty driveway past Jensen, “how did you get here in the first place?”

Jensen smiles faintly. “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in. I parked down the road. Your, erm, gardener I think let me in.”

“Holy crap,” Jared says, craning his neck around to the front lawn. “He’s still around? That crazy bastard should have been gone a good hour ago.” He turns back and looks at Jensen again, his expression fading into something more wary. “Okay,” he says, finally. “Come on.”

He gestures him up and Jensen crowds into his space as Jared uses his body to keep the dogs at bay, carefully shutting the door behind them. Jared hasn’t put on his usual aftershave, and he smells exactly as Jensen remembers - of shampoo and the same fabric softener he always used to use and  _Jared_. Jensen shuts his eyes for a moment against  _then_ , sets his jaw and follows Jared into the living room. He sits carefully on one side of the couch as Jared sinks into the armchair, and they both stare across the distance between them for an awkward moment before Jared says, “So.”

“So,” Jensen echoes. “I came here to say -- to say that I think it’s fucking ridiculous that we can’t do a stupid scene together. I mean come on, man. What are we? Kindergarteners?”

Jared wraps his large hands around his knees and sighs. “I know,” he says softly, not looking at Jensen. “I know.” His hair is in his eyes again and Jensen can’t quite see his expression fully, but he sounds empty, defeated.

Something within Jensen clenches forlornly.

“Look,” he says, and swallows back bile. “The kiss. I -” he hesitates, then forces himself to continue “- I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened, but - I shouldn’t have reacted in that way.” He can’t look Jared in the eye. “And on set, I just - I want the old Jared back, you know? The guy who makes everyone laugh - even that bitch in admin with the perm.” He laughs himself, and to his own ears it sounds thin and reedy, completely unbuyable. “I just - I think we should give it another go. The scene, I mean - working together on it and making it work and making a fucking awesome film. But I need you with me on it.” He looks up, catches Jared’s wide eyes, and hates himself deeply. “I can’t do it without you, J.”

Jared’s silent for a long moment, completely still, watching him uncertainly. Then he says, hesitantly, “So everything’s good between us?”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, with a brittle smile. “Of course it is.”

When he finally leaves an hour or so later, stuffed so full of Doritos and cola that he thinks he might puke, Jared accompanies him to the door and wraps his arms tightly around him. It startles Jensen and he stands stiffly for a few moments before forcing himself to relax into it, one arm awkwardly coming up to rest lightly at Jared’s back.

“Sorry,” Jared says, slightly bashful as he pulls away. “It just - it means a lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “Yeah.”

When Jared waves and shuts the door behind him, Jensen feels like fucking crying.

No money was worth this.


	8. Chapter 8

On Friday night, Jensen hangs out with Chris, despite Jared’s protests that he should join the crew in celebrating the shitty week finally being well and truly over.

“Come on, man,” he had said, leaning on the back of his chair as Jensen had bent over his laptop writing emails, the warmth of Jared’s breath on the back of his neck making his fingers miss keys. “You had fun last time, right? Everyone wants you there. Jim and Bob and Gary - hey, you remember Gary, right? And Linda was -”

“Sorry,” Jensen had said, shortly, not looking away from the bright screen. “Can’t.”

“Chris won’t mind.”

“He’ll cry himself to sleep.”

“You’re a stubborn asshole sometimes, you know that?” Jared had said, an exasperated fondness in his voice. He had clapped both hands down on Jensen's shoulders, and Jensen had had to shut his eyes and silently talk himself out of shrugging away from the grip like he wanted. Jared’s hands were large and warm and it would have felt nice, damn nice, if Jensen hadn’t been fully aware of the beautifully fucked up situation he had landed himself in.

Instead, he had just felt somewhat ashamed.

When Chris opens the door to him later that evening, he takes one lazy look at him and says, “There’s beer in the fridge. Whiskey’s where it always is.”

Jensen snorts, rubs a hand tiredly over his face, and follows him in.

He opens the fridge door and lets the blast of cold air hit him fully in the face for a moment, before pulling back and shutting it, two bottles clinking in his hand. Chris is leaning casually back against the kitchen wall, eyeing him critically.

“Told you that contract would come back and bite you in the ass.”

Jensen rummages around in the drawer next to him, pulls a bottle opener out of it and pops both the caps off.

“Yeah, well, you also said the Cowboys would win the Super Bowl,” he says, flatly. “And that I should go for it anyway.” He passes the beer over and shrugs. “Whatever. It’s done.”

Chris doesn’t say anything, just follows Jensen into the den and collapses back into his favourite beaten up armchair. Jensen takes up position in the other one, settling down into the familiar ass-impression, feet propped up on the table.

“The scene go good in the end?”

Jensen lets his head fall back and considers the ceiling for a moment. “Andrew thought it did,” he says finally. He smiles unfeelingly. “So did Jared.”

“And?” Chris says, and when Jensen raises his head back up to look at him, his expression is expectant, unfooled.

Jensen thinks back to the shoot. To Jared’s hand on his knee, soft but more sure as Tom, smoothing down his pant leg in a reassurance too subtle and cruel for Dave to fathom. He thinks of the sharp jut of his elbows, trembling with the tension from his bound hands - and it’s a damn good thing that Andrew had liked it because Jensen’s not sure he could have stopped it if he’d wanted to. He thinks of Jared fumbling him out of his chair as soon as Jacob had undone the knots, excited and fucking  _proud_ , pulling him close to him and saying, “I knew we could do it. Knew it,” then pulling him even closer and breathing, “ _Thank you_ ,” against his ear, sincere and happy.

“Could have been worse,” Jensen says, with a shrug, not really wanting to talk about it because he isn’t entirely sure that even Chris would understand. “Not by a whole lot, but it could have been.” Taking a long pull on his beer, he asks, “Did Steve get back to you?”

Chris studies the bottle in his hand, playing absentmindedly with the label. “Yeah. We’re meant to be meeting up tomorrow, but you know Steve.” He’s silent for a moment, forehead furrowed, then he looks up and says, “You thought about telling Jared?”

“What?” Jensen asks, lost. “About Steve?”

“No,” Chris says, with a twist of his lips. He watches him closely, slightly squinty-eyed with appraisal. “About that executive dickhead. Explain things a bit. Might help.”

Jensen laughs and drinks some more, trying to get the sour taste out of his mouth.

“I’m being serious, here,” Chris says, something like the bite of frustration in his voice, and he still hasn’t touched his beer. “This is Jared we’re talking about. If you tell him you’re being forced to act like his goddamn best friend -”

“He’ll what?” Jensen interrupts. “Hate me forever?” He smiles, flint-hard. “Possibly. And then maybe he’ll make a scene and offer me money on principle because he’s Jared Padalecki and he’s fucking like that.”

Chris didn’t blink. “You’re being irrational,” he says, calmly.

“Fuck off,” Jensen snaps, and struggles out of the armchair’s embrace. “I’m getting the damn whiskey.”

Later, with the warmth of too much alcohol swirling comfortably in his stomach, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s past the two-thirds mark cool in his grasp and more than several up-ended beers standing empty on the carpet, Jensen slumps back and says, “The problem, Chris, the problem is that, when he touches me -”

Chris raises a lazy eyebrow enquiringly.

“- when he touches me  _friendly_ ,” Jensen emphasises. He pauses, struggling to remember where he had broken off, then continues. “The problem is that I don’t know - don’t know whether it’s him or me anymore.”

“Touching you?” Chris asks, confused, empty glass dangling from his fingers.

“That I,” Jensen says, frowning heavily through the mist of inebriation, his throat burning and thinking:  _don’t like_. Even drunk, he knows that some things are better kept to himself.

There’s a long silence. Chris is watching him again, his eyes a little glassy.

“Next time,” he says, finally, trying to prop himself up in the armchair and failing, “we are getting high. You're fucking depressing, man.”

Jensen shrugs apologetically and rubs his hands down his legs, covering his knees and shivering, too drunk to care that he’s thinking about Jared as much as he is.

~

It’s so early that the sky is a hazy grey - more black than blue - when he arrives on set on Monday. Still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he shivers in the cool morning air, yawning hugely as he locks his car and shuffles in the direction of his trailer. Dumping his jacket and MP3 player once inside, he grips the edges of the tiny sink in his tiny bathroom and just leans for a moment, collecting himself. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he grimaces, flicks on the tap and bends over to splash cold water onto his face.

Time to face another day.

After towelling his face dry, he locks the trailer behind him and sets off for make-up. He’s greeted by a chorus of “Hey, Jensen”s and a pastry, followed swiftly by a steaming cup of coffee, and he slouches back in the chair he’s directed into and tries not to get his hands too sticky.

Kathy appears behind him in the mirror, holding an industrial-sized box of heavy duty make-up and her own coffee.

“Once I get started, you don’t get to leave that chair until I say so, you hear me?” she says, tone stern and face a little worn without make-up of her own.

Jensen chases raspberry jelly off his thumb with his tongue and grins impishly back at her reflection. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, solemnly, and she rolls her eyes and thwaps him on the shoulder.

“Behave,” she says, a smile curling the corner of her mouth and making her look ten years younger. “Or these bruises will be real.”

It takes over an hour, and Jensen’s fidgeting long before she’s done with him. He watches the slow build up of puffy, discoloured skin, tilting his head up, down, left, right as directed, and clamping down on the urge to puff out his cheeks just to feel the pull of the still soft wax across his cheekbones, over his left eye. Once done, he gets another pastry as a reward and tries to sit still as his hair is pulled at, flattened and grease dragged through it in an attempt to make it look as messy and dirty as possible. His hair is longer than he had to keep it for Dean, but not by much and there’s not a whole lot that can be done with it. The end product doesn’t look much worse than a bad case of bedhead, he thinks, eyeing it critically in the mirror, but he’s more than happy to keep that thought to himself if it means his stint in the chair is up.

It’s a generally agreed upon fact among those that have to use it that the door to the make-up trailer is a good for nothing piece of crap - something having gone wrong with both the hinges and the handle halfway through the second week of filming - and Jensen wrestles with it as he stands on the steps outside, trying to close the damn thing. Finally succeeding, he unthinkingly takes a step backwards off the step and collides hard into someone else with a sharp  _oomph_ of lost breath. A someone else who is apparently Jared by the exhaled noise of surprise and amusement into the back of his head, the leather jacket-covered arm twisting around his torso to turn him around.

“Wanna watch where you’re going next time, Ackles?” Jared says, with a playful grin. Then he stops and stares, frowning as his eyes trace Jensen’s face. “Hey,” he says, softly, and brings up a hand, tracing warm, blunt fingers across Jensen’s cheek, following his jaw line and tilting his face up into the pale morning light with gentle pressure under his chin. “Hey, that’s really good.”

Jensen stands still for as long as he can, eyes rolled upwards to the sky so he doesn’t have to see the earnest approval in Jared’s expression, before the need to pull away is like a physical _ache_ , his hands loose and awkward at his sides. Jensen shifts, pulling his face carefully out from under Jared’s touch, and watches as Jared drops his hand and smiles in something like embarrassment but still doesn’t look away.

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “Kathy is a professional.” He smirks and tries not to notice that Jared’s leather jacket is on the darker side of earth brown and looks soft enough to touch. It accentuates his broad shoulders, his tanned skin and dark eyes, and Jensen rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, wishing hard that Jared had somewhere else to be other than where he was currently standing: less than two feet away, almost close enough to make backing up a necessity and not a rudeness, but not quite.

“Today’s a big one,” Jared says, blissfully unaware of what’s going through Jensen’s mind. “Pretty intense stuff. You good for it?”

_Yeah_ , Jensen thinks, _I’m good for it_ , and shrugs. “Andrew’s put a whole lot of thought into it, so hopefully. You’re gonna have your ass handed to you on a plate, Padalecki. Just warning ya.” It’s not entirely a joke, either. Jensen knows he’s not going to be holding anything back.

This is the one scene they haven’t practiced together and it’s crucial. Andrew had told them from the very beginning that he didn’t want them doing it together until they had a crew filming it, and he had had them practicing it separately with acting coaches on-off over the weeks they had been on set. The idea was that they would be able to easily slot together when the time finally came, and yet there would be that element of surprise, danger,  _difference_ , and that it would make the scene. Jensen still has his doubts, but he’s a professional and at this stage the words and actions are ingrained within him. If something goes wrong, he’s determined it’s not going to be on his side.

Jared laughs. “Man, I’m terrified. You were always pretty scary shit waving those fake guns around.” His grin gets wider. “The important words there being _pretty_ and _shit_ naturally.”

“Shut up,” Jensen says, and fights to keep his own smile from his face. “Some people just look more suave with guns than others, I get it. Don’t go all bitter on me just ’cause I got Bond and you got Percy Pig, Jared. It ain’t pretty.”

Jared shakes his head and rolls his eyes, punching him playfully in the shoulder and rocking Jensen back onto his heels. “Tell me, Jen. Is your head actually stuck up your ass, or does it just like it there?”

“What can I say? My ass is a pretty fine place to be,” Jensen says, shrugging and trying hard not to lose his sincere expression. “Now get out of my damn way, Padalecki, ’cause some of us actually have places to be.”

“Dude, you’re the one in the way of make-up,” Jared says, gesturing helplessly to the trailer at Jensen’s back.

“That’s what they all say,” Jensen says, and sidesteps neatly around Jared. “See you on set,” he throws back over his shoulder as he begins heading towards the costume trailer.

As he pulls on a dirtied, bloodied t-shirt and torn jeans, he thinks back on the conversation, picking it apart word by word and action by action. And while Ben rubs smears of blood and grime into his arms, under his chin, onto his knee where the jeans’ denim gapes raggedly open, he wonders how much of it was real and how much had been about the money.  The money which wouldn’t be safe in his bank account until filming had finished.

Jensen thinks it was all him but he can’t be sure, and it’s driving him crazy.

~

When Jared knocks on his trailer door ten minutes before they’re due on set and asks him whether he wants to get together later at his house -  _play some pool, go swimming, get the grill out, whatever. Just some fun. Nothing special, you know?_  - all happy, expectant expression and hopeful voice, Jensen says, “Yeah, sounds great,” without even hesitating.

Jared leaves and the trailer seems still and empty without him. Jensen almost wishes he’d stayed.

He doesn’t need to think about his motivation this time, and he wants to put his head down on the table and fold his arms around it, shutting everything else out. He can’t even do that, though, because he’ll ruin his goddamn make-up.

~

“You know what they did?” Jensen says, his voice trembling a little even while his grip on the gun has never been steadier in the awkward cradle of his left hand. “When they found me trussed up like that, sitting all pretty for them. You know what they did, Tom?” He stares across the cosily lit space at Jared and enunciates clearly, “They fucking  _laughed_. Then they broke my fingers.” He snorts and smiles, the expression twisted with hurt and pain and malice. His other hand is limp at his side, fingers wrapped fatly in dirty, torn cloth, and he turns the wrist slightly as Jared’s eyes almost involuntarily flit down his arm to take in the physical evidence.

“I’m sorry,” Jared says, and Tom’s face is sincere, open. Jensen wonders how much of it is because of the gun angled at his head. “Believe me. It wasn’t meant to go down like that -”

“Bull _shit_ ,” Jensen snarls, cutting him off fiercely. “Don’t you even try that on me. You fucking tied me up and _left me_. What the hell did you think would happen?”

“No,” Jared says, voice softly placating, and he says it slowly, carefully, as if trying to reason with a madman. Jensen knows just how much that voice makes Dave want to punch him because the feeling is simmering deep within his own gut. “You were never in any real danger, were you? And you gotta see it was the only way we were gonna find out what the hell was going on. Tell me there was another way - a better way - and, hell. I’ll  _let_  you shoot me.” He spreads his arms and smiles in a way which is meant to be reassuring, but feels more like a hard  _fuck you_ to Dave.

Jensen knows his expression is ugly. “If I want to shoot you, don’t think you’ll have any say in the matter,” he says softly, deadly serious.

He doesn’t think the multiple cameras set up around them could have missed Jared’s flinch at his words: the moment when Tom finally realises Dave’s being fucking serious. He knows there’s one focused solely on Jared’s face, tracking every reaction, just like he knows there’s one trained on him, too.

He takes a clumsy step forward, and another, the gun still held out straight in front of him. It’s not the practiced grip he’d been taught for Dean Winchester, the one which said:  _this is my gun and I know how to use it, asshole_. No, this is different, more awkward, because it’s the first time Dave Benson’s pointed a gun at someone, and it takes more than righteous anger to make you a pro. Jared’s got nowhere to go because Tom’s lounge simply isn’t that big, and for the first time Jensen feels like he’s the one who’s got control of the situation. He enjoys it.

“Do you know what it feels like to have your stomach stamped on, Tom?” he asks, viciously. “I mean,  _really_ stamped on.Because let me tell you. It’s not as much fun as you’d think.”

“No,” Jared says, almost overriding him and shaking his head stubbornly, as if refusing to believe what Jensen’s saying. “You weren’t meant to be hurt. Your uncle -”

“Yes, Tom. My uncle,” he spits out, furious. “The guy who I haven’t seen in - hell -  _years_. Who used to smack me around as a toddler. He broke my nose once, did you know that?”

Jared goes entirely still, eyes fixed on Jensen, expression strangely pinched.

“No,” Jensen continues. “No, you didn’t know that, did you? Because not once - not fucking  _once_ \- did you think to maybe run the details of your genius plan past me. Check whether maybe I wanted to be used as fucking  _bait_ , Tom.”

He takes another step forward and stops, breathing heavily into the tense silence. Then he smiles grimly and says, “Down on your knees,” gesturing jerkily with the gun.

Jared doesn’t move. “You can’t be serious,” he says, and for the first time since Dave arrived in Tom’s house with a gun, he sounds unsure.

“Down on your knees or I shoot you right the fuck now,” Jensen says again, without hesitation, and watches as Jared nervously draws air through his teeth and then slowly does as he’s told.

Jensen knows one of the writers added in this particular twist to the scene after finding out it was going to be Jensen playing opposite Jared, rather than, say, a giant. Jared’s size has always made manhandling him tricky on camera, and Jensen’s always maintained that he’s not exactly fucking small himself at 6’1’’, but Jared can make anyone look short. This was about making the threat to Tom’s life as realistic as possible, and making Jared look up at Jensen as the action progressed took it just that little further. Truthfully, as Jensen takes a couple of steps closer to Jared, towering over him, it gives him just a little bit of a buzz.

Slowly, he places the muzzle of the gun against Jared’s forehead and stands there for a moment, just breathing deeply and watching Tom’s feelings flit across Jared’s face.

“Look,” Jared says finally, hesitant, like he’s not quite certain whether he might really die here if he says the wrong thing. “Look, Dave, I’m sorry.” He pauses. “I didn’t -”

“Don’t give me any fucking excuses,” Jensen grinds out, his tone unexpectedly harsh, and presses the gun harder against Jared’s head, pushing him backwards until he has to splay a hand out on the carpet to keep his balance. “You fucking  _left me_.” He stares down at Jared, tracing the curve of his mouth, the side of his cheek, eyes hovering over the mole by his nose and losing focus for a moment. “You left me.”

“ _Dave_  -” Jared says, quietly, a strange emphasis on the word, and Jensen shakes his head from side to side, the gun under his fingers beginning to feel hot and sticky with his sweat.

“You don’t get to speak here,” he says. Jared’s staring up at him and Jensen’s staring down, and if this is at all different from rehearsing with somebody who isn’t Jared, the thought is at the very back of Jensen’s mind. “You betrayed me and you don’t get to speak.”

Jared raises his chin, the muscles of his neck moving as he swallows and nods, almost unnoticeably.  He stays silent.

“I liked you. Maybe it was the stupidest damn thing in the world because you’re  _you_ and.” Jensen rolls all his pain up and crouches down to better shove it down Jared’s throat. “ _I liked you_.” He balls an awkward hand sharply into the scoop of Jared’s t-shirt and just holds on. His face is right up next to Jared’s, so close he can feel the warmth of breath on his face, and the useless prop of a gun is still pressed tight against Jared’s forehead like it matters in the slightest. They stare at each other for a long time, up in each other’s spaces and silent, ignoring the cameras completely.

It takes longer than it should for Jensen to finally shove Jared backwards onto his ass and collapse down onto the couch, fingers still gripped white around the gun.

When Andrew calls cut, he looks at Jensen in an entirely different way as he shakes his hand firmly. Says, “We’re going to have to do that final bit again - maybe twenty seconds worth - because I wanted the shot of both of you together and there’s no way you could have held onto Tom’s shirt like that with broken fingers. We’ll save it, though. Give you two a well-earned breather.” He doesn’t sound put out about it in the slightest.

Half the crew seems to want to clap Jensen on the back over the performance, murmuring things like, “Fucking A, Ackles, that deserves an Oscar,” and Jensen nods distractedly at them all as he unbinds his fingers and clenches and unclenches his hand, shaking the stiffness out of it.

Jared’s staring at him but what’s new about that?

~

He’s standing on the steps of his trailer, key in the lock and door opening, when an angry, “Hey!” makes him twist his body around, eyebrow raised in question. Jared’s advancing on him, long, furious strides eating up the distance between them, and Jensen eyes him warily as he slides the key out of the lock and turns to stand with his back to the open doorway.

“What?” he asks, a note to his voice that’s almost like exasperation, and truly doesn’t expect it when Jared keeps coming. Up the steps, a hand splayed suddenly wide on his chest, and Jared pushes him sharply backwards into his trailer, following him in and blindly fumbling the door shut behind them, hard eyes fixed on his face.

“The fuck, man?” Jensen asks, as Jared says, “So that’s how you really feel, is it?” loud and angry, nostrils flaring as he gets right up in Jensen’s space, and if there’s one sign that Jared’s really _fucking hold onto your hats because this is going to be a wild one_ pissed, it’s those goddamn nostrils.

“Dude,” Jensen says, and maybe he should be more careful here but it’s been a long fucking day and it’s not even three PM yet. “You’re gonna have to give me something slightly better to work with than that. What the fuck are you -”

“On set,” Jared interrupts, and the heel of his hand is at Jensen’s breastbone, punctuating his words with jabbing pushes backwards. “That scene. Just because no one else could see it, don’t tell me you didn’t mean fucking every -” shove “- single -” shove “- damn -" shove -" _word_.”

Jensen’s back connects with the wall of the trailer with a thump, and he glares up at Jared as Jared meets his eyes and doesn’t back off, shifting his arm across Jensen's body to keep him pinned, waiting for an answer. Jensen’s brain is screaming at him - about how their bodies are almost flush together, about his contract, about how Jared smells of powder and soap and sweat and -

“And what,” he asks, with bite, “if I did?”

Jared goes terribly still. Then he shifts, backwards and away, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. He stands in the middle of the trailer and looks too big to fit.

“Maybe,” he says softly, after a long moment, his expression damning, “all it would have taken was you asking me to stay. You ever consider that, Jen?”

Jensen can feel his face twisting up with anger, his bruised make-up still tight on his skin.

“No fucking way are you turning this around on me, Jared. No fucking _way_.” He doesn’t think he’s ever been so furious and Jared’s still looking at him as if he’s the one hard done by. “Do you have any idea how many offers I’d had to leave Supernatural? Do you? And did I take any of them? No.” His voice catches in his throat and godfucking _damn_ it. “Because I loved that stupid damn show - loved making it - and the very first offer you get, you swan right fucking out of there like you have no fucking clue what loyalty is.”

Jared’s staring at him and frowning deep creases into his forehead, looking at a loss of what to say.

“I didn’t know,” he starts, and it sounds sincere. His hands are clenching into the material of his shirt like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I didn’t realise. You should have said something -”

“What, so I had to beg you to stay, did I?” Jensen says. “Forget it, asshole.”

Jared shakes his head and snorts in frustration. His expression is hard again and his voice bitter when he says, “You know, that’s your fucking problem, Jensen, isn’t it? Too much damn pride. Too fucking proud to even -”

“What?”

Jared smiles, and it’s small and tight and hurt. “To damn well admit you liked me.”

Jensen looks at him, then rubs a hand over his face and turns away, tired of the whole fucking thing. “Everyone likes Jared Padalecki. You’re a fucking nice guy, right?”

“Loved me.” The words are soft, hopeful, and they set Jensen’s teeth on edge.

“Get over yourself,” he says, with a huff of laughter, intentionally cruel. He doesn’t turn around to see the damage he’s causing. “You’re not that hot.”

Then Jared’s hand is on his shoulder, spinning him around and back into the wall, and Jared’s fist is hard in his face, smearing the wax of pretend bruises and making his cheekbone throb with an ache he had forgotten could hurt so much.

Jensen doesn’t hesitate. He hits back like he’s wanted to for the last five years. He hits back for every film success and magazine cover and because his little sister still has a crush on the man in front of him though she would kill rather than admit it to Jensen. He hits back because he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over Jared Padalecki and he thinks it might just be killing him.

Jared knocks his feet out from under him and balls his fists into his gut and chest and shoulders and face, his face crumpled and fucking furious. He looks like he’s ripping his own heart out.

Jensen hurts too much to care.


	9. Chapter 9

“Why?” Jared asks, as he wipes blood from his mouth with the inside of his wrist and chucks a towel from the counter onto Jensen’s chest. Jensen twitches at the material's contact but continues to just lie there, blood from his nose dripping down the side of his face and onto the floor.

“Why?” Jared asks again, voice raw and still edged with anger. “Do you just enjoy fucking with me, Jensen? Acting all buddy buddy and making me think -” He shakes his head and turns away, like he can’t even bear to look at him. “Whatever,” he says, shortly. “This is over.”

He doesn’t shut the door when he leaves, and Jensen lies there listening to the everyday noises drifting in from outside, not really thinking about anything apart from how it’s Welling and Rosenbaum’s party tomorrow night and he doubts they’ll be going together after all.

Numbly, he lifts the towel to his nose and tries to staunch the blood flow.

~

Jensen’s staring at an ugly pot plant, knee jittering restlessly up and down. It’s nine forty-eight on the Day After and he’s sitting in the chrome and glass waiting room outside Mark Finnburg’s office, feeling all too much like he’s back at school and waiting for the principal to chew his ass out. It hadn’t taken long for word to filter through to the top apparently, because the guy from first aid had only just handed him an icepack when his phone had buzzed and a charming secretary had been setting him up an appointment with the executive producer at nine fifteen sharp the next day, polite but firm as she overrode his objections. Jensen’s been waiting half an hour already in the too warm building - Mark evidently not quite ready to see him - and he thinks he might be more intimidated by the power play if his body wasn’t a solid ache barely contained by his skin.

The intercom buzzes and the platinum blonde girl sitting at the desk looks across at him. “Mr Ackles?” she says. “Mr Finnburg will see you now.”

Jensen nods and carefully levers himself out of the too-low chair, bruises he had happily forgotten about making themselves known once more. He grimaces at her as he moves past the desk to the closed door, says, “See you on the other side, I hope,” as he puts one hand on the cool handle. She smiles sympathetically, her eyes somewhat caught by the bruise purpling across his right cheekbone, and then he’s pushing forwards and walking in.

Mark stares at him impassively, eyes tracing the damage for a brief moment, then nods curtly towards the chair in front of his desk and says, “Sit,” like it’s an order.

Jensen does as he’s told, stiffly, carefully, and tries not to fidget.

“You’ve fucked yourself over pretty badly here, Jensen,” Mark says, and it’s a casual statement of fact. He leans his powerful body back in his chair, the leather creaking softly underneath him, and studies him with a grim sort of half-smile on his face. “I did warn you.”

“Yes, sir,” Jensen says, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. He doesn’t say anything else - things like  _in my defence_  and  _I tried_ and  _Jared damn well hit me first_ \- because he knows it’s not going to make the slightest bit of difference.

“As agreed upon, you will be receiving only half your original fee. Your lawyer has already been contacted.”

“Yes,” Jensen says again, and balls his hands into fists on the chair’s arms.

“You will be glad to hear that your actions have not disrupted the filming schedule irreversibly,” Mark continues, his voice dangerously light. “Andrew tells me that there are several secondary character scenes that can be brought forward with limited effect on the budget and the estimated shoot completion date. You’ve got about a week’s worth of time for your face to be back to normal.”

Jensen nods, not particularly surprised. Last night, sitting in a hot bath and trying to soak the ache out of his limbs, he had thought it through. The ramifications would have been a whole lot bigger if filming wasn’t centred around LA, he knows.

“That, however,” Mark says, leaning forward again to rest his meaty forearms on the desk and fixing Jensen with hot eyes, “isn’t what you’re here about. That, I would have happily told you over the phone.”

Jensen looks at him - looks at the tense paleness of his wide face and the red flush creeping up his neck, looks at the rigidity of his shoulders - and really doesn’t want to know.

“Jared says he’s pulling out.”

Jensen presses his lips tightly together and doesn’t say anything for a moment. The traffic outside is still muted through the broad expanse of glass, the sun still shining weakly, and Mark’s eyes are still alight with anger. Then he breathes in deeply and says, “Oh?”

“Yes,  _oh_ ,” Mark repeats, restrained violence in his voice, and leans even further forward like he wants to reach over his desk and grab Jensen by the throat. “And I don’t think it’s too much of a leap to assume that you are directly responsible for that decision.”

“Actually,” Jensen says, and smiles, tight and hard. It’s a petty vengeance but it feels good. “I’d blame your goddamn contract.”

Mark stares at him, then slowly matches his smile - only his is a little bigger, a little more teeth on show. “At this point,” he says, “the distinction hardly matters. You will still be the one who gets him back on board, regardless.”

Jensen snorts and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Mark is silent for a moment, just looking at him, and then he shrugs, carelessly, and the motion doesn’t look quite right on him in his starched shirt and neat suit. “That’s just too bad, Jensen,” he says, and there’s an unpleasant edge to his tone, “because that regrettably means you won’t be seeing any of your money for a long time.”

It’s a barefaced threat and Jensen sits unmoving for several heartbeats as it hangs awkwardly in the air between them.

“I didn’t pull out,” he says, carefully, coldness eating away at his stomach because there’s no way he can afford not to be paid for the months he’s already put into this film. “That’s  _my_  money and I’ve done every goddamn thing you asked me to. It’s not my fault if Jared pulls out -”

“I reckon my legal team can come up with a pretty good case,” Mark says, cutting him off indifferently. “You’ll probably get the money in the end, but it will be so wrapped up in court proceedings that it could take years. Legal fees on top of that, and well - you get the idea, I’m sure.”

“You son of a bitch,” Jensen says, and stands, barely feeling the pull of abused muscles he’s so angry. “I  _need_ that money -”

“I know you do and this is nothing personal, Jensen, believe me,” Mark says, coldly. “But, what can I say? This is a cutthroat business and this film isn’t going to be a blow out on my watch. I need Jared back and you will do everything you damn well can to get him. You succeed, and you get your money and we don’t talk of this again.”

Jensen huffs out a breath of laughter, and there’s a slightly hysterical edge to it. “And how the fuck do I go about doing that, huh?” He gestures to his face. “If you haven’t noticed, me and him aren’t exactly on the friendliest of terms at the moment. He’s not even going to speak to me, goddamn it.”

“I don’t care what you do,” Mark says, and his attention’s already shifted to the papers in front of him, like this is a done deal. “Fuck him for all I care - from what I hear, that could work.”

Jensen’s jaw works angrily for a moment and he can’t even find words. Finally, he grinds out, “Screw you. You can fucking find someone else,” and doesn’t wait for an answer as he turns and leaves the office, not even acknowledging the nice secretary as he blows past her.

~

When Chris calls later that day to see how the meeting went, Jensen lets him do most of the talking.

_So the son of a bitch cut your pay, huh?_

“Yeah.”

_Fuckin’ corporate assholes. I don’t suppose the fact that it was Jared - nah. Next time I see him, you betcha ass me and that boy are gonna have a little chat about him keeping his fucking paws off you. He has no fuckin’ clue what this - Goddamn it, Ackles. Don’t you think -_

“No.”

_You’re an idiot, you know? What harm could it do now? Telling him -_

“Goddamn it, Chris.  _No_.”

_Fine, fine. Jesus. You want me to come over with some tequila?_

“I’m good.”

_You sure, Jen? You sound -_

“I’m good, Chris. I’m fine.”

The next couple of times Chris calls, Jensen lets them run to voicemail.

~

There’s a can of beer getting warm by his side and a bottle of Scotch against his chest, growing steadily lighter with every swallow, and while Jensen’s not exactly enjoying himself, the detached feeling brought about by too much alcohol is a hell of a lot better than being stone cold sober right now. The TV is flickering coloured light over the walls but he hasn’t been consciously watching the screen for over an hour and a half, and the volume’s down so low that it barely intrudes on his thoughts - thoughts like having to sell the house. Thoughts like moving in with Chris, or perhaps just finally throwing in the towel and going back to Texas and his parents for a while, finding a job back there.

They’re not particularly happy thoughts, and Jensen’s only mentally prodding at them for the moment, not really prepared to properly follow through on them. He’s had his own place for years now, and it just feels too much like losing his independence, like being an unwanted burden, like being thirty something and a failure. Even with his gradual downward spiral after Supernatural - having to downgrade on his house and his car and even his goddamn hair gel - he’s never been a charity case. The idea of it makes him take another swig of liquor, welcoming the burn at the back of his throat.

His phone vibrates on the side next to his beer, and Jensen doesn’t do anything for a moment except listen to the _whirr whirr_ sound of plastic thrumming against wood.  _Chris_ , he thinks, and breathes out gustily, then clumsily gropes for his cell with the wrong hand because his other is fully occupied with nursing his whiskey. He holds it up and looks at the flashing caller ID. Keeps looking at it as the phone buzzes in his hand, his mouth suddenly dry and his heartbeat thrumming through his skin.  
  
_Jared cell_

He stares at it stupidly until the thing goes silent and the screen blank. Shuts his eyes for a long time and wonders whether Jared wanted to hurl abuse at him or just talk, and didn't honestly know whether he was up for either option at the moment. Cradles his hand around his cell as he takes a double swallow of alcohol and tries not to choke as the thing vibrates again - just once - and the screen flashes up: _new voicemail received._  
  
Hesitantly, Jensen presses listen and raises the phone to his ear, clutching the cool bottle of Scotch to his chest and biting the inside of his cheek painfully hard. He’s already thinking perhaps he should just delete it as the voice telling him he has a new message starts, but then there’s the buzz of real noise and he’s frowning, pressing the phone closer to his ear and listening harder than he would have to if he was sober.

Jared, it seems, went to Mike and Tom’s party anyway.  
  
_Jensen_ , comes the slurred tone, breathy and too close to the receiver, and Jensen grips the phone tighter, his gut clenching slightly. There’s another voice in the background, a voice saying,  _Jared, man, you really don’t want to do that, trust me,_  and Jared says,  _Go to hell, Tom, ass,_  like he’s drunk as all fuck but still really means it. There’s a pause, music getting louder then softer, and the sound of a door closing more forcefully than necessary. Then quiet.  _Jensen_ , Jared says again, like it’s the only word that matters.  _Jen_.

Jensen presses his lips tightly together, his thumb stroking softly over the smooth, curved back of the phone. He knows he's drunk as all fuck, but wants to mouth  _Jared_  right back into the handset anyway.  
  
_I wanted to say_ , Jared continues, and his voice is rougher than usual, choked with emotion and drink,  _that Dave -- you as Dave -- what you said, about me leaving you. That’s a lie, Jen. A lie, okay, because you -- you left me first, Jen. You first. And I never -- I wouldn’t have._  He’s silent for a dragging moment and Jensen can’t breathe. _I hate you_ , Jared says finally, unhappily, and it sounds like he really goddamn wants to mean it.  _I hate you so fucking much, Jen. And sometimes_  - he breathes out noisily over the line -  _sometimes I wish I’d never met you_.

He sounds small and uncertain and there’s a fumbled pause before the line goes dead.

Jensen sits unmoving and listens to the recorded, mechanical voice telling him he has no new messages, a painful, dizzy ache spiking from just below his sternum.

He wants to throw the phone across the room. Wants to break it. Wants to smash it into the wall. But he doesn’t. Just places it carefully back on the side and staggers upwards out of the armchair, taking another swallow of the bottle still clenched between his fingers before stumbling clumsily out of the room and up the stairs.

His destination is the tiny room next to the bathroom, not much more than a glorified cupboard, and the mess of shelves against one wall. He hasn’t seen the book he’s looking for in over a year, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know exactly where it is: third shelf up, on the right next to a box holding the baby toys that he’d bought for his nephew and was keeping with his sister’s slowly swelling belly in mind; out of sight but not out of reach. He gropes blindly until his fingers come into contact with the still new binding, and drags the book down, holding it loosely against his stomach as he carefully places the Scotch on the carpet and slumps down the wall next to it, barely feeling the complaint of bruises through the dulling warmth of alcohol.

On the front cover, Jared’s face is undamaged. His smile is as wide as ever, bright white, his skin tanned and his moles un-airbrushed. It’s a good picture, natural, happy-looking, and Jared hadn’t seen Jensen for over a year when it was taken. It’s a good look for him, Jensen thinks, the thought cutting deep. He doesn’t want to think of Jared now, with a black eye, a split lip, drinking himself into a coma all alone in a room at Tom’s. Hating Jensen.

He wonders when he began caring again. Wonders whether he ever truly stopped.

He flips the cover carefully over and leafs through page after glossy page, dragging his fingers down pictures of Jared: Jared with his dogs, Jared hugging and shaking hands with this celebrity and that director, Jared swimming, Jared running early morning. He stops when he gets to the Supernatural section, just stops and looks and breathes.

The photos are familiar in a way which hurts: Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam, the impala and shotguns and long, shining knives. There are several of Jared in Sam’s clothes, grinning and goofing off and pouting. There’s one of Jensen with his mouth wide, snapping at the falling snow, and he can remember the freezing cold bite of that day - early morning, a few weeks before Christmas - like it was yesterday, not years ago.

There’s only one candid shot of them together. Sitting side-by-side in their director’s chairs and Jared’s whole body is turned to face Jensen, script in his hands, smile on his face, and Jensen’s got his hand curled at his mouth, Dean’s thick band of silver on his finger, and he’s looking at Jared like he’s the whole goddamn world. Jensen can’t remember it. He thinks it must have been late first or early second season judging by Jared’s hair, and the day was warm enough for him to sit in just a t-shirt, but that’s about it. Too many times they had sat like that, their knees nearly touching, and he had listened to Jared speak, watched Jared laugh, thought about just how lucky a guy could get. They aren’t pinpricks of memory anymore so much as a collective warm impression, and Jensen can’t remember this particular moment, try as he might.

He drags the bottle to his chest but doesn’t drink. Just smoothes the pad of his thumb over Jared’s face, rubbing mindlessly back and forth, and viciously swallows back the noise clawing at the inside of his throat. He rubs a hand over his face and presses the heel hard into his wet eyes, and thinks that in the morning it will be okay because he can tell himself it was just the alcohol.

~

His bruises have turned yellow and he’s got three days worth of beard when the doorbell rings. Once, twice, and then the persistent drone of a finger not moving away from the button. It’s only when it cuts to a halt and the banging starts, loud and insistent, that Jensen swears and hauls ass out of armchair. He shuffles through the livingroom in slippers and robe, coffee in one hand, and wishes death on the world in general.

He stares at Jared when he pulls open the door.

“Jensen,” Jared says, and jerks the hand he had been hammering at the door with down. His eyes linger over Jensen’s face for a moment, then sweep down to take in his robe and bare knees. He shifts awkwardly, tips his chin, and looks into Jensen’s eyes. “Can I come in?”

The guy’s face is almost as bad as his own, his eyes tired, but he’s clean shaven and the polo shirt he’s wearing is neatly pressed. Despite everything, he looks good. Jensen’s grip on the wood of the door tightens. Then he steps back and gestures him in without saying a word.

“Kitchen’s through there,” he mutters, as he shuts the door on the world, leaving just the pair of them standing too close in the dimness of his hall. “Coffee’s in the pot.” Jared’s still staring at him, and Jensen looks away, heat creeping up his neck. “I’mma go change.”

Upstairs, it takes him far too long to put on jeans and a t-shirt. He can hear Jared rattling the cupboards beneath him, can hear his footsteps on the linoleum, and with every sound his stomach clenches with nerves. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror; splashes water on his face and drags a wet hand through his hair, wishing he could wash it properly. Then he rubs his hands on the backs of his jeans, shuts his eyes and tells himself not to fall apart, then twists the doorknob and slowly treads downstairs.

Jared’s sitting at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around one of Jensen’s cups and dwarfing it. He’s staring thoughtfully into the left hand corner of the room, the stained wallpaper curled with damp not quite hidden by Chris’ beer can tribute to Michelangelo. Jensen hovers in the doorway and painfully remembers exactly why he hadn’t wanted Jared to see his home.

The floorboards creak beneath his bare feet and Jared turns his head.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “I made you more coffee.” He nods at the steaming cup opposite him, and Jensen realises he’s left his own upstairs. “Just how you like it.”

Jensen nods and stiffly walks over. He pulls out the chair and sits, awkward and unsure of exactly what to do with his hands. After a moment, he mimics Jared and curls his fingers around the hot ceramic. They sit in silence.

Finally, Jared says, “So. I went to see Finnburg today.” His voice is cool and calm, and if Jensen didn’t know Jared as well as he did, he might have thought there was nothing wrong.

Jensen purses his lips and nods, not properly looking at him. “How did you -”

“Chris called me.” Jared pauses to let the information sink in. “He told me everything.”

Jensen stares numbly at his hands, then he pushes back from the table, a grimace on his face pretending to be a smile. “You want some more milk in that?” he asks, getting up too fast and pulling the fridge open with just a little too much force. “’Cause mine is still goddamn hot, and, man, watered down caffeine is better than nothing at all, you know what I’m saying? Still too goddamn early -”

There’s the dull scrape of chair legs on floor and then Jared’s behind him, gently pushing the fridge door out of his nerveless fingers and closing it. Jensen's shopping list is a meaningless blur in front of his eyes, pinned up by a purple J magnet, and Jesus Christ he could _kill_ Chris for this. He doesn’t turn around.

“I didn’t know, Jensen,” Jared says, his voice soft and urgent as he breathes the words hotly against the nape of Jensen's neck. “I swear I didn’t know. That was some entirely fucked up shit and if you think I wanted that - wanted you pretending -  _God_. I swear I didn’t know.”

Jensen grips the counter with white-knuckled hands still scraped from hitting his fists into Jared’s face. “I know,” he says, quietly. “I know. I never thought you did.”

Jared breathes out heavily and leans a hand against the counter as he sags slightly, like the relief of knowing that is just too much. His thumb is warm where it rests against Jensen’s pinky and Jensen doesn’t shift away.

After a moment, he says, throatily, “I got you your money back. All of it.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jared says, suddenly fierce. “It’s your goddamn money, and every last dollar is sitting in your bank account right now. I got the copy confirmation from the bank and everything.”

Jensen shuts his eyes and tries to swallow past the surge of emotions welling up his throat. He wants to ask Jared why it doesn’t matter to him that he did what he did, just for money. He wants to ask him how he can so fucking easily _forgive_.

Instead, he asks, “How did you do it?”

Jensen can feel the shrug of Jared’s shoulders at his back, so close to his skin.

“I told him I’d finish doing the film. Among other things.”

“Why?”

Jared huffs out a breath of laughter, and the sound isn’t happy in the slightest. “Why do you think?” he asks, heavily. “Jensen, since you - Since I left Supernatural, I haven’t -”

“Don’t,” Jensen interrupts, sharper than he means to be. “Just don’t, okay?”

Jared shifts and then his other hand is firmly on the counter too, his arms encircling Jensen, keeping him tightly where he is. If he had pressed himself against Jensen’s back, Jensen would have turned and shoved him away, but Jared keeps his distance, doesn’t push.

“No,” he says, forcefully. “No, Jensen. This time, I am damn well going to tell you what I think. Because for five fucking years I have been regretting not doing so, and it’s killing me, you hear?” Jared breathes in deeply - a strange, shuddery noise - and when he starts again, his voice is calmer. “I have never gotten over you, Jensen,” he says slowly, with careful emphasis. “Since Supernatural, I haven’t been with anyone else, and if you think that’s the joke Chad thinks it is, I am honest to God going to strangle you.”

Jensen keeps very still, his lower lip caught painfully between his teeth.

“You hurt me so goddamn much and I wanted to hurt you back, you know? And when I got that offer -- I thought you’d at least try to stop me. And you were so fucking upset, Jen, you looked like you wanted to kill me. And you were hitting me and I was hitting you back, but not once did you say, ‘Just fucking  _stay_ , Jared,’ like I thought you would. That would have been enough -- not even together, you know? Just as friends. I could have dealt with that. But you just looked like you wanted to be sick every time you saw me.”

It feels like Jared’s pulling Jensen apart, bit by bit, with confession after confession against his neck. Jensen stares dead ahead and tries desperately not to _feel_ , his hands gripping the countertop hard enough to hurt.

“So,” Jared says, and his voice sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel. “This is all up to you, Jensen. I want all you’re prepared to give me but I’m not going to try and force this to work anymore. Because, yeah. That’s worked out so damn well with our current situation, hasn’t it?” He sighs tiredly and his hands release the counter.

“Filming starts again on Monday and Andrew said you better have your butt there.” There’s a brief silence, a hesitation, and Jensen wants Jared’s hand on his shoulder, a reassurance, anything. But Jared doesn’t touch him; only says, “I’ll see myself out.”

Jensen counts Jared’s steps to the front door, listens to the catch being undone and the door opening and closing softly. Slowly, he peels his fingers away from the counter’s edge, turns, and slides down onto the grimy floor. Bringing his legs up, he rests his forearms on his knees and tries to put himself together again.

~

It had been a Thursday morning, sunny and bright, and Jared had bounded into his trailer without knocking, a happy grin on his face. He had slipped two fingers into Jensen’s belt loops and pulled him towards him, pressing the tops of their thighs and their hips warmly together. He had talked about the current episode, how his mother wanted to see Jensen again, and how did Jensen feel about vacationing in Europe over the hiatus - the South of France, maybe?

Jensen had looked up into Jared’s face and said, “I can’t do this anymore, J.”

Jared had stopped talking and frowned. Then he shook his head, splayed a warm hand at Jensen’s back, and grinned wryly. “You’re a goddamn ass, Jen. I don’t know why I love you so much.”

“I’m being serious,” Jensen had growled, pushing himself out from Jared’s hold, and Jared looked like Jensen had just stuck a knife in his gut and jerked upwards, twisting the blade viciously into his internal organs.

“What?” he had asked. “How - Why?”

Jensen had turned away then, running a hand over the back of his neck and wishing this didn’t have to hurt quite so much as it did. “My brother phoned me yesterday,” he had gritted out, and it was fucking cowardly to lay any blame at Josh’s feet because it was so much more than that, but the call had shaken him up, had solidified some of the worries in his mind. “Told me that of course he respected any lifestyle I chose but was I actually  _gay_  with Jared Padalecki, because he had seen some photos of the press tour and had you actually been grabbing my ass?” He had snorted mirthlessly and gripped his hands into fists. “He was being serious.”

Jared had reached out then, had laid his own hand on Jensen’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing soft circles into his t-shirt. Jensen had shrugged him off, and had known the gesture had hurt Jared from the quiet coming from behind him.

“Look,” he had said, and his voice had caught slightly. “I never wanted to be goddamn gay - and I’m not, okay? Because I’ve never liked a guy before you and I can’t deal with it. I don’t want my family knowing. I don’t want the whole damn world thinking they know what’s between us. You know it’s gonna come out someday, Jared. Sometimes I think you even  _want_  it coming out - like you want the shit storm from the media and the hate mail and the show suffering for it.” He had turned then and looked at Jared, whose face was paler than he had ever seen it and whose mouth was clenched into a sharply downwards line. “This isn’t some fucking fairytale, Jared,” Jensen had said, caustically. “Me and you, we’re not going to get married and adopt some kid and have five goddamn dogs on a ranch in the middle of Texas. Somewhere along the line, things are going to change, and I guess it'd be better not to ruin our whole careers over this thing - not when it might be over in a couple of months.”

He hadn’t wanted to be so angry, so sharp, but he’d thought that if he had taken enough time to calm down, to think it through, he was going to start fucking crying about it. And then he’d start begging Jared to forgive him - to take him back.

“Might,” Jared had said, softly, like the word was the fucking holy grail. “Might, Jensen. It might also last years.”

Jensen had taken a sharp breath in. Then he had turned and left his trailer without another word.

The following couple of weeks had been the worst of his life. That morning seemed to have shrunk Jared somehow and he stumbled blindly around the set like he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Trying to get Dean and Sam to work on screen had been a fucking impossibility, and whenever Jensen saw Jared - whenever he caught Jared looking his way - the tight ball in his gut ached and he’d have to turn away. He couldn’t lie awake in bed without thinking of Jared, couldn’t sleep without dreaming of him, and, after telling him he was the _stupidest goddamn son of a bitch_ he knew, Chris had sat him down and - in what had to be the most awkward conversation ever - told him to follow his heart.

Saturday morning, and Jensen had woken feeling lighter than he had done in days. He had hummed as he’d yanked his jeans on, eaten three slices of toast, and had just been on his way out the door to see Jared when his phone rang.

Kripke had been gentle with him but Jensen had still been vibrating with anger when he had finally hung up. Then he had slammed out the house, started his car and had driven straight to Jared’s house, all of his good intentions gone.

Instead of apologising, he had split his knuckles open on Jared’s face.

~

 _He broke a glass table, you know?_ Andrew says, a couple of days later. He was calling about scheduling and wanting Jensen to message him a picture of his face, because Jensen’s  _it’s healing up nicely_ apparently wasn’t going to cut it.

“What?” Jensen asks.  
  
_Jared. He broke one of Mark Finnburg’s tables. One of those nice heavy glass ones by the door. Kicked it right over and smashed it when Mark was saying something about a contract you signed. Wanted to sue him too, I heard. And security had to be called in the end, just to keep him from knocking the guy’s teeth out._

“Oh,” Jensen says, unable to find words.  
  
_Oh, indeed,_  Andrew says, mildly.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s the first day back and when Jensen walks into make-up, everything goes silent. The woman powdering Jared’s face stops laughing and Jared looks up at Jensen through the mirror. Jensen smiles tightly, slips into his seat and nods in gratitude at one of the artists as she puts a cup of coffee in front of him; she doesn’t meet his eyes. Kathy’s off sick it turns out, and a woman he's never met before starts applying cover-up to the remaining shadows of his bruises, her jaw tight and her hands too careful.

Everyone else is silent. The tension ratchets up. Jared tries to pick up the thread of the interrupted conversation, and the girl doing his face almost stabs him in the eye with her brush she’s so startled. Jensen tentatively asks how things are going on set and they  _look_ at him, uncomfortable and  _are you fucking dumb?_ Jensen shuts up after that. The air inside the trailer is close and too warm, and he shifts uneasily, earning himself nothing but a reproving glare from the woman doing his make-up.

He catches Jared’s gaze in the mirror and flicks his eyes away. Takes a sip of lukewarm coffee and tilts his chin up when directed. Allows his eyes to wander back and Jared’s still looking at him, his mouth slightly pinched in at the corners, his eyes alight with amusement. Jensen has to look away. He presses his own lips together and tells himself sternly that it’s not funny in the slightest. Jared coughs, a fake, strained sound, and Jensen breathes in deeply, his chest tight.

When Margaret drops the mascara wand and mutters, “Fiddlesticks,” under her breath, it proves too much. Jared snags Jensen’s eyes again, quirks an eyebrow minutely, and Jensen suddenly can’t breathe he’s laughing so hard. Beside him, Jared’s whooping with mirth, head thrown back and hands braced on the chair arms as his chest heaves. Everyone is looking at them like they’re crazy, shock warring with alarm on their faces, but as the seconds tick by and Jensen still can’t stop, Jared almost choking as he wheezes out, “Fiddle - fid -  _fiddlesticks_  -” between gulping breaths, the women’s expressions soften into small smiles and they exchange glances. Margaret - face a fetching shade of pink - thwaps them both lightly on the shoulder and mutters something about not cussing around her kids. Jensen tries to nod sympathetically at her, then looks sideways at Jared and helplessly dissolves again.

Afterwards, it’s almost like normal. Jensen’s gut aches with laughter and the fading impression of Jared’s fists, and his head feels too light, almost dizzy. The crew look at them strangely when he walks with Jared down onto set, neither of them talking, stepping in sync, Jensen stretching just that little further than usual and Jared cutting his steps short. It’s awkward and it’s a spectacle but Jensen deals, heat running up his neck, jaw set, and refuses to care.

At lunch, he sits next to Jared. Misjudges it and sits too close, almost bumping shoulders with the guy, and he can’t shift away because it will mean too much. He doesn’t want Jared getting the wrong idea.

“So -” he says, and Jared looks up at him sharply, eyes expectant and expression too casual. All the carefully considered words he’d come up with over the past week dry up in Jensen’s mouth and he doesn’t say anything for a moment, wielding his plastic fork and shovelling beef and salad in as if Jared still isn’t staring at him, waiting.

“Good shoot, hey?” he finally settles on, swallowing, because it’s safe and he’s chickenshit and godfucking _damn_ it.

Jared turns back to his food. “Yeah,” he says. “It was.” Nothing more and nothing less, and Jensen turns his attention to the crew eating around them - one mouthful for every three surreptitious glances cast in his and Jared’s direction - and glares at them. Beside him, Jared’s concentrating too wholeheartedly on his food and that’s Jensen’s fault, like most things goddamn are, and he feels like a fucking dick.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. If he’s not being ushered to wardrobe, then he’s having his make-up redone on the sidelines of the set, and if he’s not acting then he’s going through his words, getting back into character after a week out of the saddle. Andrew’s getting waspish again, the crew harried and working faster than ever, and new faces have been drafted in to pick up the slack. A new timetable has been tacked up on every available wall, citing days running into the small hours of the morning, and Jensen can’t even complain because no one else was stupid enough to hit their co-star in the face. It’s no one else’s fault but his and Jared’s, and he takes to smiling at every single crew member that crosses his path, because they may be worse than his grandma gossiping about her new Canadian pastor, but he hasn’t heard a single underhand comment so far and that’s a goddamn miracle.

When it’s finally time to go home, he’s dead on his feet, but he jogs to catch up with Jared on the way to the parking lot anyway.

“Hi,” he says, and doesn’t know how to get started with the conversation he wants to have. Jared looks at him, waits for a moment too long, then smiles briefly and adjusts the bag strap against his shoulder, still walking. Jensen shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and pokes a finger through a hole in the lining, his mouth dry and his brain useless, his feet crunching too loud on the gravel.

He’d thought it would be easier than this.

“Well, this is me,” he says, when they reach his Mustang, and immediately feels like an idiot because of course Jared knows exactly which crappy car is his. Fumbling with his keys, his breath catches in his throat when Jared quietly says, “Jensen,” and he turns around too quick, a smile plastered over his features.

“Yeah?”

“Have a good night.”

It’s all Jared says, and then he’s turning away, moving across the darkness of the parking lot, and Jensen deflates. He watches him go, fiercely squashing the urge to call after him because then Jared might come back. And if Jared did that, Jensen wouldn’t have any choice but to talk, God help him. 

~

It’s somehow even worse the next day, because if Jensen was going to say something, he should have said it first thing, and now it’s fucking _awkward_. Jared keeps on looking at him like he’s not sure whether he wants to touch him or shake him, and there’s a slight shift in his attitude since yesterday. He keeps close to Jensen throughout the whole day, hanging around him at lunch and in minutes snatched between cuts and during walks from trailer to trailer, not pressing himself on him but making his presence known, like he’s giving Jensen ample opportunity to say something, like he’s reminding him that he’s just a look away.

It’s long past dusk when the black, rounded underbellies of storm clouds appear on the darkening horizon and the wind begins to pick up. Andrew makes the call to move inside, signalling the mass movement of crew members, and as Jensen walks to his trailer, a half hour nap in mind, Jared falls silently in step beside him.

At his door, Jensen turns to say something - something light about the crazy-ass weather, maybe - but Jared’s standing on the top step of his own trailer and staring at Jensen with such a naked look of desperation that Jensen flounders, mouth open and words dry on his tongue.

“Jared,” he says, and gropes for something that might make a difference. He shakes his head, at a loss, and Jared turns away, forcefully pulling the door open, almost yanking it off the hinges. For a long time, Jensen stares at the space where he had been standing. Then he goes inside, quietly shutting the door behind him.

He doesn’t nap like he'd planned. Instead, he sits at the small table, a piece of grubby paper in front of him and a pen in his hand, trying to shape all the thoughts in his head.  _I think -_ he starts, then scribbles it out thickly.  _Maybe we should. What you said. Maybe we. Fuck it. Fuck. FUCK._ He accidentally rips through the paper as he goes viciously over the word with the pen, making it bigger and blacker and angrier.

“Fucking pussy,” he mutters to himself, and shoves away from the table.

_This is all up to you, Jensen,_  Jared had said, and Jensen bets that Jared’s fucking regretting that now. Sitting in his trailer next door, wondering what the fuck had possessed him, because the whole goddamn  _world_  knows what a screw up Jensen Ackles is and Jared’s got firsthand experience, after all. Before, it had taken six months and Jared’s own style of gentle manoeuvring to get them together, and there’s so much more between them now, so much fucking pain and hate and love and hurt and, _Jesus Christ_ , it makes Jensen fucking nauseous just thinking about it. He’s never reacted well to pressure and why the hell couldn’t Jared have just shoved him up against a wall, put his fingers in his hair, held him still as he put his hand down the front of his jeans and --

Jensen runs cold water over his wrists and cups his hands to swallow a couple of mouthfuls, trying to focus.

_Maybe we should give it a go,_  he thinks, and why the hell shouldn’t it be as simple as that?  _Maybe we should give it a go. I’m sorry._

Outside, it’s darker and the air tastes thick and heavy. Jensen stands on the top step of Jared’s trailer and knocks. Knocks again when he gets no answer, and then knocks louder. It begins to rain, big, fat raindrops, and Jensen has no choice but to jog back to the dry of his own trailer or face getting chewed out by Andrew for wasting more time having to have his make-up and hair redone.

He tries not to take it as a sign. Fifteen minutes later, he hardly hears the banging at the door over the thunder and the rain hammering down on the roof: a soggy PA with an umbrella and a grin.

~

The shoot goes on for a long time. It’s loud with gunshots and yelling and Jensen’s hoarse by the end of it, pitching his voice over all the noise while repeating the same three or four lines over and over again, take after take. It’s worse being on the soundstage, even if the wall of Tom Westbury’s living room is little more than dust and rubble at this point in the narrative, and he’s looking forward to the shooting of the final sequence, open space and a road and not much else. Andrew’s already shown him the chosen location on a map - a couple of hours outside LA, barren and empty - and Jensen thinks it will be good to get away from the city, even for such a short time.

It’s past midnight and Jensen’s on his third cup of coffee when Andrew claps his hands together and says loudly, “Great work, everybody. Now go home and get some sleep.”

Jensen stifles a yawn behind his hand and is only too happy to comply. But first someone’s misplaced the key to wardrobe, then Bob claps him on the shoulder and won’t stop talking, and then the assistant director catches him as he stumbles back through the pouring rain to his trailer and seems to think offering to share his umbrella means that Jensen’s obliged to stand and listen to his whole life story. By the time he collects his stuff, it’s past one in the morning, and Jensen jogs through the torrential rain to the parking lot, jacket held over his head, getting thoroughly soaked anyway, hardly able to see three feet in front of him.

A flash of lightening lights the area as thunder crashes overhead, and his Mustang is sitting alone and dejected in the middle of the lot, everyone else long gone. Groping for his keys, Jensen stands in a puddle and wrestles the driver’s door open, throwing his stuff through into the back and lunging into the dry interior. He takes a moment to collect himself, pushing damp tendrils of hair off his forehead and grimacing at the sticky residue of gel, then slides the key into the ignition and turns.

The car vibrates under his fingers, choking and grinding, the engine trying to turn over and failing.

“Come on, baby,” Jensen murmurs, and prays as he tries again. “Come on, come on, come on.”

A rattling splutter and then the whole thing shudders and dies, and when Jensen twists the key again, he gets nothing.

“Goddamn it!” he says, and hits the steering wheel with his hand as he bangs his head back on the headrest, frustrated and tired and just wanting to be home alray. “Sonofabitch. You good for nothing piece of - Fuck fuck  _fuck_.”

He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks about going back to his trailer, making good use of the couch, but then he remembers passing security locking up on his way out to his car, and those gates are goddamn high. There are probably dogs too. And razor wire. He pulls his cell out of his back pocket and it cheerfully tells him there’s no network coverage, of course, because it seems the whole goddamn universe is out to get him tonight. Jensen swears and balls his fist up on top of the steering wheel. Security would have a phone, no doubt, but that would require waiting for one of the guys to make their rounds around the outer fence, and in this weather Jensen wouldn’t bet on that being any time soon.

He drops his head down on his chest and rubs at his eyes. It looks like it might have to be the backseat, and Jensen remembers just how goddamn uncomfortable that was when he was fifteen, let alone now, with an extra foot of height and a couple of decades worth of accumulated aches and -

Someone hammers at his window and Jensen almost bites through his tongue he’s so surprised. There’s the blurry shape of a person just visible through the rain-soaked glass, and Jensen grabs the handle to start winding the window down, trying to calm his pounding heart; it doesn’t work. He sits and stares as he slowly reveals the man standing in the rain outside his car, the steady thrum of blood in his ears drowning out the sound of the storm, his grip on the handle loosening, his fingers lax and useless.

Jared leans his forearm on the roof of the car and hunches forward, dripping wet and blinking water out of his eyes.

“Car trouble?” he yells, as thunder crashes.

“Jared, what the hell? How come you’re still here?” Jensen yells back. He’s getting wet and so is the upholstery, the wind howling and pushing the rain on a diagonal slant through the open window. He doesn’t care in the slightest.

Jared just shakes his head and smiles tightly, jerking his head to the side. “Come on. My car’s just over there.”

Jensen nods, swipes his keys from the ignition and grabs his sodden jacket from the back, rolling the window hurriedly back up. Then he shoves the door open with his foot, fumbles to lock it again, and turns to look at Jared, a hand shielding his eyes from the torrential rain. Jared nods at him and they run across the parking lot together, splashing carelessly through muddy puddles, the rain in their faces and soaking through their clothes to the skin.

The red Porsche is backed neatly into the far corner and Jensen remembers the first time he saw it, how he had refused to go anywhere in it, its exterior gleaming and expensively new. He doesn’t think twice about it now, pulling the door open and sitting sideways on the seat with a guilty look at the leather interior. With his legs hanging outside, he starts wrestling with his boots, panting and frowning and almost growling with frustration because his socks are soggy and the damn things just won’t come off, his fingers slipping against the worn leather. He’s getting more and more soaked.

“Dude,” Jared says, next to him. “What the hell are you doing? Shut the damn door and get in.”

“Your car,” Jensen explains through gritted teeth as he yanks at his heel. “I’m goddamn muddy, man, and -_”

“And I’m not?” Jared says. “I'll get it serviced - don’t be an idiot and get in. You’re wet enough, Jen.”

Jensen scrubs a hand through his hair and reluctantly does as he’s told, swinging his legs around and slamming the door shut on the foul weather, cutting off the deafening sound of wind and rain. It’s suddenly too quiet in the confines of the car, just Jared and him, sharing the same space, the same air, and Jared’s carefully avoiding his eyes. Jensen clears his throat and plucks at the material of his t-shirt, firmly plastered to his skin.

“Thanks,” he says, after a moment. “I was just getting ready to bed down on the backseat.”

Jared smiles tightly and shrugs, pressing the key into the ignition, the car giving a throaty purr and coming instantly to life under his fingers. “No problem,” he says. The wipers start going overtime, and Jared carefully pulls out of the lot, giving the Ford Mustang a wide berth. Jensen just sits, dripping quietly onto the seat.

“How come you were -”

“I was showering.” Jared huffs with humourless laughter. “Really shouldn’t have bothered.” His hair is slicked down against his neck, curling damply at his temples; his jacket and the shirt underneath are dark with wetness. Jensen looks away and presses his palms flat against the upholstery. “I heard you trying your car just as I was getting into mine,” Jared says. “I figured I’d at least wait to see if you got it started.”

He takes a left, apparently done with his story.

“Well,” Jensen says, again, because it feels necessary, “thanks. I owe you one.”

Jared shrugs once more, lopsidedly, as if it doesn’t mean a thing.

They settle back into an uneasy silence, the rain still thrashing down outside. Now and again, lightening flashes across the dark sky, illuminating the inside of the car and throwing Jared’s face into hard, unfamiliar lines. Jensen shivers and rubs at his arms, cold and wet, and Jared turns on the heater without a word.

When they finally pull up outside Jensen’s house, Jensen sits stiff and unmoving, staring out the windshield.

“Here you go,” Jared prompts.

Jensen doesn’t look at him. “Do you -” He swallows. “Do you think I could come back to yours?”

He feels the weight of Jared’s stare on him and wonders what he’ll do if he says no.

“You’re sure?” Jared says, after a long moment, his voice soft like he doesn’t want to spook him.

Jensen nods and glances at him, then looks away again, unable to meet the heat in Jared’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he says.

Jared throws a glance over his shoulder and then is twisting the wheel hard, pulling a U-turn in the middle of the road so sharp that the Porsche’s tyres squeal on the pavement. Jensen tries not to think as the wet world outside blurs past, the Porsche thrumming beneath him, Jared’s foot firmly on the gas.

There’s no pussying out of this now.

Next to him, Jared is staring dead ahead, a small crease between his eyebrows as he concentrates on the road, and his thumb is beating out a fast, irregular beat on the curve of the wheel, nervous tension just beneath his skin. Jensen just breathes, in, out, and tries not to fidget against the rub of wet jeans. Twice, he opens his mouth to say something, anything, to break the rising tension between them, before thinking better of it and closing it again.

Jared slows to a crawl when he turns onto the wide, smooth road he lives on and stops outside his gates, fumbling with a remote tucked into the door panel. The gates swing open, and Jared guns the engine once more, coming to a stop in the middle of his rain-slick drive.

“Come on,” he says, and Jensen nods, pushing open the door. He shivers in the renewed onslaught of wind and rain, hunching his shoulders, and hurriedly rounds the hood of the car, jogging to the porch step. Jared joins him, key already in hand, and they fall into the warm dryness together.

The carpet is pale cream and probably worth more than both of Jensen’s kidneys. “Hang on a minute,” he mutters, and braces a hand against the wall as he finally gets to kick his boots off. He takes his socks off too, rolls up the sodden ends of his jeans for good measure, and when he straightens up, finally done, Jared’s standing still, just watching him.

Jensen smiles a little self-consciously and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You mind if I make us some coffee?”

Jared blinks, frowns slightly, then his expression clears and he nods. “Yeah, coffee. Of course. Sorry. I’ll go find some towels or something.” He hesitates, like he’s reluctant to leave him, then turns and moves for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Jensen opens the door to the kitchen and the dogs are immediately on him, wet noses snuffling at his crotch and nails clicking on the tile, tails wagging happily and one of the warm bodies trying to insinuate itself between him and the door, almost knocking him over.

“Christ,” Jensen says, and reaches down to try and steer them away, feeling somewhat out of his depth as he moves forward and they follow him. “Good dogs. Now back off. No - no, back  _off_.”

Resignedly, he pats the head butting excitedly at his hand and then, when they still don’t get the right idea, hunkers down to scratch behind a couple of ears, trying to look put out about it and failing. He’s still at it when Jared walks in, towels and fresh clothes in a messy pile in his arms, and the other man’s smile grows about a mile wide at the spectacle. Two of the dogs rush him but Jared isn’t fazed, moving to the side to deposit his armful before bending to vigorously rub at their coats.

“Sorry,” he says. “They always get a bit crazy when I’m out all day.”

Between them, they manage to persuade the dogs back through the small room connected to the kitchen, and then into a bigger room adjacent to that and smelling of mutt, chew toys and food bowls scattered about the floor. When Jared points at their baskets and says, “ _Bed_ ,” the dogs actually go, which Jensen thinks is close to an honest to God miracle. Jared carefully shuts both doors behind them as they make their way back to the kitchen and it’s just the two of them again, no distractions. Jensen swallows.

“Here,” Jared says, and throws him a towel. “I’ll make the coffee. Help yourself.” He gestures to the pile of dry clothes.

Jensen nods in gratitude and begins toweling his hair dry. He rubs the moisture from the back of his neck, and watches sideways as Jared starts one-handedly doing the same, his other hand fully occupied with the coffee maker. Going to the side, Jensen picks through Jared’s selection of long-sleeved t-shirts and sweatpants, holding a couple up and wincing because he’s been having to look up to Jared ever since the first time he met him and this just might be a little bit embarrassing.

“Sugar, no milk?” Jared asks, like it’s necessary.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, slightly distracted, grimacing as he grips the edges of his wet t-shirt and unpeels it from his chest, tugging it sharply over his head. He quickly pats himself down with the towel, then takes up one of Jared’s offerings - olive green and soft with wear - and pulls it on. He has to fold the sleeves back.

“It may be a little bit big,” he says, looking up and smiling ruefully.

Jared’s staring at him though, and isn’t smiling back.

“I don’t know what I like better,” he says, softly. “You without the clothes or you in  _my_ clothes.”

Jensen swallows hard, warmth flushing through him. He doesn’t know what to say and so he doesn’t say anything, just keeps smiling inanely, his brain stuttering with nerves and something else. He moves to the table and sits down. His jeans are still wet but he doesn’t think he’s up to changing them with Jared standing by as audience.

The machine beeps loudly into the silence, and, after a moment, Jared walks over and places his coffee in front of him. Then he sits down at the opposite end of the table and they stare at each other.

“So,” Jensen says, with a grim smile. “My turn now, huh?” He thinks that if he was in Jared’s place he’d make some wiseass crack about him getting the easier job,  _so just shut up and get on with it_ , or something. But Jared doesn’t say anything, just shifts forward, his fingers tightly edged around his cup, looking at Jensen too closely.

Jensen doesn’t really know where to start. He figures Jared knows most of the important parts anyway.

“So maybe I’ve been a bit of a fucking idiot.”

Jared just keeps looking at him. Jensen fidgets and swallows hard because this is goddamn difficult, and since when had it become a good idea to come back to Jared’s house in the middle of the night for a fucking soul-baring session? If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t be there, but Jensen’s known for a long time that most of the rules get thrown out of the fucking window when it comes to Jared. Possibly, he thinks, that’s the whole fucking point.

“And maybe I should’ve done things differently,” he says. “Got my head out of my ass, you know? But you leaving - well, it fucking hurt, and I’m not gonna lie because it still sometimes fucking hurts, alright?” His smile is brittle and Jensen wants Jared to  _understand_ more than anything; understand how he’s never been able to just smile and forget, and this isn’t anywhere near easy for him. “But this whole situation, it’s my fault, it never would have happened if I hadn’t freaked out , screwed it all up, and I can take responsibility for that.” He pauses, breathes, says stiffly, “So I apologise, okay? If I could take everything I did back - I’m sorry.”

He gathers himself before looking back up, prepared to take the self-righteous anger and anything else Jared wants to hurl at him, and it takes him a moment to realise that Jared doesn’t give a flying fuck about his hard-won apology. He’s waiting for an entirely different punch line, his mouth a hard, tense line and his eyes not moving from Jensen’s face. And whatever had been said previously - Jared pressed close to Jensen’s back in the middle of Jensen’s crappy kitchen, soft words at his neck and arms pinning him in - Jensen had never really believed it could all be just as easy as that.

He licks his lips. His mouth is dry.

“And I think,” he says, slowly, steadily, because the past few years have been the longest of his life and there are some things he’s just never allowed himself to consider. “I think I’m not over you, either.”

It’s not the big romantic statement he’d been imagining. It’s not anywhere near as good as  _I still love you_  or  _I want to be with you_ or  _please take me back_ ; there’s no flowers or manly tears, and they’re sitting in Jared’s kitchen of all places and his jeans are beginning to chafe. But the way Jared’s face lights up in that instant - eyes bright and grin not quite suppressed - makes him think that it might just do anyway.

“So does that mean -- me and you --?” Jared says.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, his tone measured. “Yeah, I think it does.”  _Jesus fucking Christ._

Hesitantly, Jared unfolds himself, standing up, all long lines and awkward grace as he steps around the table, and Jensen lets himself admire him like he hasn’t been able to do in a very long time. He stares up at him from the chair, reminded of ropes around his wrists and Jared’s mouth on his, softly asking - Jared’s expression when he had told him no. It’s strangely difficult to bear, and Jensen muscles upwards into Jared’s space to get rid of the images, putting himself right in front of Jared, staring at his mouth and his chin and the mole at the side of his cheek, and not moving away.

He swallows as Jared reaches a hand out, his fingers brushing over his cheek, his palm pressing warmly just under his jaw, cradling his face, and Jared exhales noisily, like he’s been holding his breath for a long, long time.

“Jensen,” he says, softly, “ _God_ ,” and kisses him. Pulls back to check Jensen’s expression, his eyes blown wide and dark, then kisses him again, going deeper and harder and licking desperately at Jensen’s mouth, making it mean something, his fingers flexing beneath Jensen’s chin, holding him steady as he puts his other hand at the small of his back and presses them more firmly together. Jensen grips onto Jared’s shoulders and they’re broader than he remembers them being, his t-shirt warm and damp under his fingers, hard muscles bunching beneath his hands. Then Jared sucks harder at his mouth, bites at his lower lip, and Jensen isn’t thinking anything anymore, just pushing back, pressing upwards as Jared bends him back, giving as good as he gets.

It takes them a while to get to the bedroom. Jared pushes him wordlessly down on the bed before hurriedly shucking off his wet clothes and crawling up him, pressing him flat. Skimming his hands beneath the hem of the olive-green t-shirt, playing his fingers over Jensen’s belly, Jared pushes the material upwards and almost rips it in his haste to get it off. Jensen just lies back and stares at him, slightly dazed, and then Jared gets to work on his jeans, cursing and breathing laughter as he wrestles with them, and Jensen puts his hands over his, helping him to peel the wet denim from his body. Then they’re kissing again, hard and desperate, sucking at each other’s mouths as Jared fumbles for the bedside table.

“Can I -” he breathes, and “Let me -” and Jensen swears raggedly as a slick finger presses carefully into him, arching up against Jared and threading his hand through his damp hair, tugging him down and just breathing against his neck, trying to steady himself. Then there’s two fingers, going deep and smooth and stretching him carefully apart, and Jensen hasn’t done this in a hell of a long time. He’s almost goddamn  _vibrating_ , for god’s sake, and it’s a familiar, strange burn, and when Jared grins against him, says hoarsely, “Right there, huh, Jen?” and crooks his fingers, Jensen almost comes off the bed.

“So damn beautiful,” Jared murmurs, and “God, I’ve missed you,” and Jensen can hardly bear it so he puts his hand on Jared’s cock to shut him up, tugging hard, once, twice, then twisting his wrist until Jared can’t do anything but gasp. The hot flesh feels strange but familiar beneath his hand, making his face heat up like he hadn’t ever jerked Jared off before, hadn’t ever sucked him off, hadn’t ever watched him come. Jared bites down hard on his shoulder, drags his teeth up the line of Jensen’s throat, then removes his fingers as he kisses him again, making Jensen choke back on a whimper.

Jared takes him on his back, slow and deep, holding back, and Jensen grips at the sheets beneath him, panting, as Jared wraps his hand around his cock and doesn’t ever look away. He comes with Jared inside of him, his lips pressed tight together and one hand pressing bruises into Jared's flank, and Jared’s hips snap forward in answer, his eyes going out of focus, his expression slackening like it always did when he came. He doesn’t remove his hand until he’s entirely finished, stroking steadily up and down Jensen’s spent cock, making Jensen twitch with aftershocks.

Afterwards, in the shower, Jared carefully soaps Jensen up and runs his hands lovingly over his entire body, learning it again as he presses Jensen against the tiles, mouthing and licking under his jaw. Jensen doesn’t say anything. They crawl into bed together, completely exhausted, and he stares at the illuminated display of Jared’s alarm clock blinking 3.48am. Jared slings an arm over his waist and they stay like that for a while, completely silent, almost awkward. Then Jensen turns over, puts his fingers on Jared’s face, stares at him in the gloom.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it, and kisses him softly.

In the morning, Jared makes blueberry pancakes and they drive to work together.

~

Chris leans against the doorjamb and surveys him as Jensen stands awkwardly on the front porch, a bottle of Jack glass-cool under his arm. He hasn’t spoken to Chris in over a week - had ignored all the voicemail messages and had refused to open the door the one time the man had come over, anger still thick in his gut, worried he might say something he’d later regret.

“So does this mean we’re gonna have less quality time drinking?” Chris asks, not bothering with  _hello_.

Jensen scowls at him. “You were the one who insisted on playing matchmaker,” he points out. “This is entirely your fault and don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet.”

Chris looks him up and down then nods at the bottle. “That for me?” he asks. “So the sex is pretty damn good, I take it?”

“Screw you,” Jensen says, and follows him in.

~

Two weeks before shooting wraps for good, Jensen stands yawning in the pre-dawn gloom, staring out at scrubland and trees and not much else. Behind him, the crew is busy making final preparations at a fevered pace, eyes on their watches and the barely lightening sky. Jensen shivers, reminded of years of asscrack of dawn call times. In the darkness, even the scenery could be Vancouver.

Jared joins him, coffee in one hand which he palms off to Jensen, pastry in the other. They stand in comfortable silence, breathing in the fresh, barely morning-damp air. Jensen had been right: it feels damn good to be out of LA.

The shot is beautiful. The rumble of a truck pulling away into the dawn-pink sky, Jared standing behind him, Jensen crouched down, three fingers on the road steadying him, their shadows cast long and weak behind them. They’re both bleeding and dirty and worn out. Somewhere to their left, there’s a body. Somewhere to their right, there’s another. Jensen thinks about the whole situation - about death and almost killing people who were already dead, about Jared and almost fucking things up irreversibly - and he laughs and laughs and laughs, his breath hitching in his throat and how the hell did it all work out right in the end anyway? Behind him, Jared carefully lays Tom Westbury’s hand on Dave Benson’s shoulder, squeezes gently, and it’s all Jensen needs to quieten his mind. In silence, they both watch the imaginary truck moving away from them, squinting against the rising sun.

Later, Jared follows him into his trailer, kisses him slow and hungry like they didn’t just spend the night (and the night before, and the night before that) together.  Squeezes his ass.

“Hey,” he says softly, smiling. “They worked out the title of the film. Andrew just told me.”

“Yeah?” Jensen says. “And?”

“ _Something Like History_.”

Jensen frowns. “I think it kinda sucks.” He doesn’t try very hard to keep a straight face.

“ _You_  kinda suck,” Jared says, grinning, and kissing him again. “I think I kinda like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful support when this was posted / over the years since. I hope anyone finding this story afresh enjoyed it. This fandom was an absolute revolution for me and I'd just like to say thank you for that <3


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